


Pet Project

by Caeria



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-11
Updated: 2015-09-14
Packaged: 2018-04-20 04:08:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 29,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4772936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caeria/pseuds/Caeria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hermione overhears something she shouldn't concerning Professor Snape and decides that maybe the House-elves aren't the only ones in need of protection.</p>
<p>Author's Notes:  <br/>It will take me a while to post all 50+ chapters but this will be a cleaned up and edited version that interested readers will be able to drop into a PDF or e-reader format.<br/>A lot of very fine artist types created wonderful art to go along with the story.  You can find them here:  http://petprojectcaeria.deviantart.com/</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Revelations and Eavesdropping

Severus knew better than to smirk in the face of his colleague’s rage. Certainly pointing out the fact that her Scottish brogue had deepened to rival that of an Edinburgh dockworker was also probably not his safest course of action. Of course, he had been lying to an unstable madman for twenty years and had been known to goad even Albus Dumbledore into a fury just for the amusement of watching the man lose his damnable twinkle. What did he know about safe courses of action? For all that he practiced an inordinate amount of caution in his life; by Slytherin standards Severus was practically reckless in his dealings with those who had the power to hurt him.

So really, driving Minerva McGonagall into a sputtering, near apoplectic fit just wasn’t something he could simply pass up. Besides, if he read her correctly, and he’d spent most of his life learning to read people correctly, all it would take was just one more thing. That in true Slytherin fashion, he would also be twisting an old and bloody knife in Albus was just icing on his already sweet cake.

“Really, Minerva,” he drawled, his tone one of someone who honestly doesn’t see what the fuss is about, “it was just a prank between boys.”

“A prank?” Minerva repeated in outraged tones. “Malfoy’s little prank could have seriously injured Harry. It is completely unacceptable for a student to intentionally try to harm another. Bright Bridget above, Severus! If Mr. Weasley hadn’t pulled Harry out of the way . . .” she trailed off, breathing hard as she grappled with her temper. “I want Malfoy expelled. I will not stand for you coddling and protecting that little animal any longer. His behavior must be stopped.”

Severus smiled though it lacked all warmth. “How oddly appropriate that you refer to young Mr. Malfoy as an animal. I believe your own coddled and protected Gryffindors refer to him as a ferret. But you see, Minerva,” Severus snarled, “that just makes the case of this incident all the more matching to its historical precedence.”

He affected a look of thoughtfulness as if trying to remember a long ago memory before turning slightly to where Dumbledore sat behind his large desk. “Remind me Albus, if you will, of the details. I seem to recall the animal in question in the original case to be a dog. Correct?” He waved one hand in dismissal before Albus could reply. “But the details hardly matter, after all. Dog. . . ferret. It really is the same difference in the end.”

Seeing his fellow Head of House opening her mouth to start her argument again, Severus cut her off. “Mr. Malfoy will NOT be expelled. He will NOT apologize, nor will his movements or privileges be curtailed. He will, in this matter, receive a week of detention to be served with Mr. Filch and that will be the end of it.”

At that Minerva found her outraged voice. “A week? You can’t be serious if you think a week’s detention is enough!”

“It is not I who thinks so, Minerva. Our esteemed Headmaster decided on that particular equivalency for the crime in question. Oh yes, before I forget the best part . . . Mr. Potter will swear he will not speak of this ever again. Not to Mr. Malfoy, nor to any other soul, especially not to his little friends.”

He knew he shouldn’t be taking so much pleasure in her outrage, but he was rather looking forward to telling her the next part. “And Minerva, if he chooses, in his arrogance, to break that oath and speak of this prank, he will be summarily expelled.”

Severus turned to Albus who had sat uncharacteristically silent through their confrontation. “If you will excuse me, Headmaster, I’ll go inform Mr. Malfoy of the details of his detention.” With a slight bow to both colleagues and a small smirk to Minerva, Severus exited the Headmaster’s office in a swirl of black.

Her target of choice gone, Minerva turned her anger towards Dumbledore. “Albus, you can’t seriously be expecting this . . . this travesty of justice to stand. No amount of favoritism is worth another student’s wellbeing.”

Minerva was so agitated she failed to see the sorrow that crossed Dumbledore’s face at her words. She did however catch the weariness when he sighed.

“Please sit down, Minerva.”

She, however, was too angry to sit and continued to stand, her back stiff with indignation.

“So fierce you are when one of your cubs is threatened,” Albus said, smiling affectionately. The smile slowly twisted into something Minerva couldn’t identify. “Minerva, please, sit. There is . . .” He trailed off for a moment and then began again, “I have much to explain to you.”

The weariness in Albus’ soft voice finally caught Minerva’s attention. Slowly the rigid line of her back relaxed. Taking a seat across from the Headmaster, she leaned back into the soft cushions of the chair. Her eyes, however, stayed flint sharp and never left Albus’ face. “So talk to me.”

“While I understand your desires to have young Mr. Malfoy removed, I can not allow it. Hogwarts and I walk a precarious line with the Ministry, as well you know. Even after today’s prank, Severus believes that Mr. Malfoy is still undecided where his true loyalties lie.”

“I do not see, Albus, how the remote possibility of Draco Malfoy’s redemption earns him the right of protection by you or this school from his crimes. There is obviously more to this than you are saying. As your Deputy, I have supported you and your decisions, Albus, for many years. However, I will not support students harming other students. No matter how much Severus seems to think this topic is over.”

Albus cut her off, his own voice hard. “It is over, Minerva.” She was shocked at the steely tone of his voice and the hard blue of eyes. She’d known for years that there was more to the Headmaster than his eccentric, grandfatherly persona, yet, as always, it surprised her when she caught a glimpse of the wizard who was considered to be the most powerful in the Wizarding World.

He’d shocked her into complete silence. She blinked at him, stunned. Then just as quickly, the hard light in his eyes was gone and powerful wizard was replaced once again with slightly dotty old man. The swiftness of the change left her feeling a bit breathless.

“Forgive me. You are right. There is more to the situation. Severus has his reasons for expecting my . . . assistance, if you will, in this matter. I will try to explain, but to fully understand you have to realize that this story begins long before today’s incident.”

“I expect it began when Harry and Malfoy first met.”

Albus shook his head. “Much further back than that, my dear. Back to before Tom’s original rise to power, during the days when he was just making a name for himself within the pureblood circles.”

At Minerva’s skeptical expression, Albus raised a hand. “I will explain. Hear me out.”

At her nod, Albus continued. “Tom was growing in power, and I knew that within a few years he would become the biggest threat our world had faced since Grindelwald. Even in those early years, I could see where his ambitions were leading and what he was becoming. Unfortunately, no one else wanted to believe me. Those beliefs, those thoughts, had a great influence over much of what happened later. You have to keep that in mind as I explain what occurred in order to understand my thinking at the time.”

Minerva watched Albus pause before rubbing a finger against the side of his long, crooked nose. She was disturbed to see faint tremors marring the steadiness of his hand. Whatever Albus was confessing to still had the power to distress him even after all these years. She was still angry and still wanted her answers, but felt the need to offer comfort to this man who had been part of her life in varying capacities for most of her life.

“I’m sure, Albus, that whatever your thoughts at the time, they were the right ones. You have always done your best to look after the Wizarding World’s best interests.”

His answer, when it came, only served to deepen her growing sense of disquiet.

“Oh my dear, I wish I could believe that. I helped set in motion the very events I was working so hard to stop.” He paused again, his eyes going vague as if he were watching some long ago memory. “So many things I would have done differently,” he murmured quietly. “So many mistakes.”

A small shake of his head and Albus’ eyes once again focused on the present, though the trace of sadness she heard in his voice remained. “Forgive an old man for rambling. It has been a long time since last I remembered these things.”

With small sigh, he began again. “I knew what was coming, you see, and even in those days I was beginning to prepare. I’ve long known that no matter how hard you try to protect children from the evils of the world, it is impossible. I knew that eventually, the children within my care would become the fighters in the coming war. That began my first mistake, for I cared for some children more than others.”

The disquiet Minerva had felt before returned in force. She knew where this was leading, or at least she thought she did. “You speak of James, Sirius, Peter and Remus.”

Albus nodded. “Yes. They were bright and strong and brave. So very brave. I knew they would be vital to what was coming. I needed them and others like them. So began the nascent beginnings of the Order of the Phoenix.”

“But those four were special to you.”

A fond smile of remembrance crossed the Headmaster’s face. “Yes, they were special. You remember them, Minerva, their friendships were so strong, their dreams so bright.”

Minerva could hear the affection in Albus’ voice even now after all these years, even when all but Remus was dead and Peter lost to the forces of darkness. Then she remembered that this was supposed to be an explanation concerning the dealings between Gryffindor and Slytherin.

“And they were Gryffindors,” she added.

“Yes, as Severus is fond of saying, my own Gryffindor bias.” The words were no sooner said than Albus abruptly pushed away from his desk and stood. “Would you like some tea?”

He turned away before she could even answer. Minerva could only blink at him in confusion. This nervousness was something she had never before witnessed in her old friend. She was more certain than ever that there was more to this story, and if allowing Albus to relieve some of his tension would ease the telling, she was patient enough to give him a moment to collect himself. “Yes, Albus, a cup of tea would be lovely. Thank you.”

She watched him putter with the tea set that sat in the corner of his office. He did not ask her but fixed her tea in the way she liked it – two lumps of sugar and a slice of lemon. His reprieve only lasted so long though as she pinned him with a steady gaze as he returned to his desk after handing her the cup. “Enough stalling, Albus,” she said, though her usual no-nonsense tones were mixed with gentleness. “I’ve known you too long. You have something to say that you know I’m not going to like. I already do not like this situation. I can’t see how it will get much worse.”

Toying with the spoon he’d used to stir his tea, Albus settled back into his chair. “You know me too well, Minerva. I should probably begin by saying that I owe you an apology. There were things happening at that time that I should have told you about, or at least consulted you on. My only excuse is that I thought I knew best -- pure arrogance on my part, really; a mistake that I seem to have not learned from, as Harry’s current anger and erosion of faith in me can attest to.

“I let the idea that I knew best and my own biases lead my decisions. I let Remus Lupin into the school as a student. I made that decision on my own. I didn’t tell you as his Head of House, nor did I tell the other teachers. Remus and I worked out what I believed was a workable solution that allowed him the opportunity to have his education and come out of the solitary life he’d lived to that point. It allowed him to make friends with others his age, while still protecting the safety of the student population.”

Minerva took a sip of her tea before replying. “Forgive me Albus, but this is nothing I don’t already know. I know you set Remus up in the Shrieking Shack. Although, if you are looking for the truth of my feelings, when it came out later about Remus’ condition, I was very angry with you for not telling me and the other teachers in the first place. We were not fooled for long. All of us knew what Remus was within three months of his enrollement.”

“I remember, my dear. You are a woman of fine temper. It is not something easily forgotten, especially since you turned all my socks into cockroaches.” His expression of wry amusement turned to something more sober. “I suspect I will once again be losing my socks once you’ve heard the rest of what I have to tell you. At the time, I can only say that I was concerned about the secrecy. You were new to the position of Head of Gryffindor and were just settling into the post. You had other things to deal with, though that is hardly a proper excuse. What I did, should not have been done without your knowledge.”

Albus fell silent for a moment. “You were aware that during that time James and the others targeted Severus with their pranks?”

Minerva nodded at this seemingly sudden shift although she didn’t quite follow the sudden change of direction in the conversation. “I remember. No matter what I told them or what punishments were handed out, the animosity between them never abated. I also remember Severus throwing as many hexes as did Sirius or James. Though truth be told, I always thought the odds of four to one unfair, but Severus seemed to hold his own. I know he never once complained or asked for assistance in stopping them, though I did my best to divert them.”

Wrinkling her brow for a moment, Minerva thought back to those times. Finally, she said, “It always seemed to me that their hatred intensified in the middle of their years here.”

“Perceptive as always, my dear. The relationship went far beyond schoolboy dislike during their sixth year.” The Headmaster paused, searching for the words to say what needed to be said. “That was the year Sirius attempted to kill Severus using Remus as his agent of destruction.”

Minerva shot straight up in her chair. “What?”

“In Sirius’ defense, I didn’t believe then, nor do I believe now that Sirius had the intention of killing Severus, an opinion that Severus has never shared. Truly, I don’t think Sirius thought through the consequences of what he was doing or the lasting harm that would come from his actions. His were the actions of a spoiled, arrogant boy. My own actions can not be so easily explained away, though arrogance does seem to be involved.”

Minerva was beginning to get an idea of how this story related to what had happened earlier today between Draco and Harry, as well as Severus’ reactions. “What happened?”

“In a nutshell, Sirius used Severus’ own weaknesses against him. He broke a promise by revealing the secret passage to the Shrieking Shack. He then gave Severus just enough information that Severus could not refuse to attempt to go through the passageway to discover the secrets he knew the others were concealing.”

Minerva was horrified. “Albus, are you telling me that Sirius sent Severus to Remus while he was transformed into a werewolf?”

“Yes. If James had not gotten the information out of Sirius in time and pulled Severus from danger at the last minute, Remus would have, at worst, killed Severus and, at best, turned him into a werewolf as well.”

“I told Severus earlier that it was completely unacceptable for one student to intentionally threaten the life of another.” Minerva was now looking at Albus like she’d never seen him before. “It was acceptable, wasn’t it, Albus?”

“Unfortunately, it was both acceptable and necessary, or so I believed at the time. When the . . . incident happened, I panicked. I had allowed Remus, a werewolf, into the school. I knew the boys became Animagi and ran with Remus when he was transformed, although they were unaware I knew. I’d known and allowed them to oversee the transformations. At the time, my reasoning was that I was providing the beginnings of the responsibilities that I knew the coming war would be thrusting on them.

“Then there was Sirius. He was the first male of the House of Black in eight generations that hadn’t been sorted into Slytherin. I saw the good his friendship with the others did for him. They were helping him to become the person I knew he could be. More of my own Gryffindor bias again. Slytherin wasn’t good enough. I was saving him, you see, and then he set Severus up. I was afraid that if expelled he’d be lost to the hate and bitterness and that all the good that had been done would be undone. I was afraid I’d lose him to Tom’s growing popularity.

“I also had my own position to consider. I’d made a mistake with Remus and now Sirius had almost killed another student. There would have been a Ministry inquiry. I could have easily have been removed as Headmaster. With everything I saw coming in regards to Tom, I couldn’t take the chance. I couldn’t lose Hogwarts and I couldn’t lose the access to the children I would someday need.”

“So you sacrificed Severus instead.”

Albus heard the hard accusation in her voice. It was no more than expected. “Yes, and to my shame, I thought it no great loss at the time -- a disservice to him that I’ve never forgotten and which he has never let me forget. I transferred my own fear, my anger and disappointment with Sirius to Severus; convinced myself that Severus was somehow at fault. That he shouldn’t have been sticking his nose into something that didn’t concern him, that he shouldn’t have been eavesdropping, that he’d goaded Sirius into retaliation, that –“

“That he’d asked for it.”

Albus lowered his face down into his hands. “Yes, I blamed him for the attack.”

“What about the other things Severus said tonight . . . about Malfoy’s lack of punishment and Harry having to be silent?”

Lifting his graying head, Albus fidgeted a bit with some loose rolls of paper on his desk before answering. “All true. Peter was not involved in this instance. I never believed James was in on the prank and Remus was as much of a victim as Severus. I gave Sirius a week’s detention with Filch and made Severus swear he would not talk about what had occurred.”

Meeting Minerva’s eyes, Albus flinched at the anger simmering in their depths.

“Are you telling me, Albus Dumbledore, that you told a traumatized boy who’d just had a most terrifying brush with death that he . . . that, good gods, Albus. Regardless of your intentions or your goals, you basically told Severus that his life wasn’t worth the effort and then refused to allow him to talk about it. No wonder he leaked the information when Remus was a professor. It wasn’t about Remus being a werewolf. It was never just that.”

Albus let out a long sigh. “I have made mistakes that I cannot change. All I can say is at the time I needed to protect –“

Minerva cut him off, her lips thinned in disapproval. “Protect? You protected yourself and Sirius. Who protected Severus?”

++++++

Several floors away Hermione Granger was standing in absolute shock, staring at a slowly whirling brass contraption nestled snugly within a hollow niche in the library wall.

She hadn’t meant to find the device. It wasn’t even like she had been deliberately snooping. It had, after all, been an accident -- the top book on her stack had started to slide and in her attempt to catch it she’d stumbled into the wall knocking into a heavy ornamental shield. Surprisingly the Hufflepuff-crested shield hadn’t fallen from the wall, but had slid to the side revealing a compartment behind it.

Professor Snape wouldn’t see it as an accident. _Would Dumbledore?_

The contraption itself had been enough to pique her innate curiosity; within seconds the rest of her books had joined the first on the flagstone floor. The polished brass surface had reflected her distorted image back to her and without the block of the heavy shield, she could hear a faint whirling sound from the cup-shaped blades that spun around its top.

Hermione hadn’t stood a chance when she realized that the thing had buttons. _Could you make a defense against being expelled based on the inescapable lure of button pushing?_ Surely the Headmaster wouldn’t hold it against her that pushing the small purple button turned what was, obviously in hindsight, a listening device into a receiving device, a receiving device that was working very well indeed. A device, a small, terrified voice in the back of head added, that was currently filling her in on a conversation between her professors.

Hermione attempted to squash the rising bubble of panic inside of her chest as her head told her to leave the device but her feet kept her firmly rooted to the spot. She was so going to get expelled. This was bad. Very, very bad. _Expelled. No doubt about it._

But she didn’t stop listening. She didn’t stop at Professor Snape’s snide remarks. She didn’t stop when Professor McGonagall questioned the Headmaster. She didn’t stop during the Headmaster’s explanation of events from long ago. Only when she’d heard the entire story did she reach out a trembling hand to press the small purple button again. Instantly the voices of her Professor and Headmaster cut off.

Very carefully she removed all traces that she had touched the device, making sure no fingerprint smudges marked the shiny brass or that any stray curly hairs had found their way into the niche. Just as carefully, she slid the heavy shield back into place. Gathering up her books, she made her way back to the table she’d claimed as hers.

Around Hermione the library was just as empty and quiet as when she’d entered. It remained unchanged; however, she couldn’t say the same thing about herself. This time her curiosity had got her, for the first time in her life, knowledge she wasn’t sure what to do with. She’d heard the story of the ‘prank’ from Sirius and Remus that night in the Shrieking Shack back at the end of her third year. Somehow the brief explanation given then, didn’t match up with the story she’d just heard. Sirius had been unrepentant. She remembered him making the comment that ‘ _Snape had deserved it_.’ Even Professor Lupin, kind and gentle Remus, had made light of the experience and downplayed what had really happened that night so long ago.

What about what Professor Snape had done that night in the Shrieking Shack? He’d hated Sirius. He was wary of Remus. She remembered now that Snape had thought they were in danger. He wanted to capture Sirius, but he’d also intended to protect them from what he thought was grave danger. He’d gone after them by himself into a situation where he was outnumbered. Slytherins didn’t do that. Slytherins went for allies and brought reinforcements.

How much courage, she wondered, did it take for Professor Snape to climb alone into that tunnel under the Whomping Willow and come after them, thinking that a murderer and a werewolf were waiting for him – the same werewolf that had almost killed him in that very same tunnel so many years before.

Thoughts of Snape led to thoughts of Dumbledore. She’d known by the end of her fifth year that the adults around her were human and fallible. It had been a hard lesson to learn, and her worldview was still shifting to accommodate that knowledge. Now, she had two new variables that were tilting her world. Albus Dumbledore wasn’t omnipotent. She’d known that, but she hadn’t really known it. She’d suspected that both the House Elves and the pictures reported directly to the Headmaster; however, she’d never suspected that the students were spied on directly. The whirling brass contraption gave lie to that idea. It was no wonder Dumbledore always seemed to know what she and the others were up to. He had the ability to listen in directly. She had no doubt that the school was filled with these listening devices.

As the minutes passed and her swirling thoughts slowed, it wasn’t the realization of the spying and observation that shook her. Intellectually she understood the necessity of that. There was no way a dozen or so teachers could keep order in a school of several hundred magically gifted students without some kind of assistance, magical or otherwise.

No, what stunned her was the slowly burning anger that filled her at the thought of the injustice done to one teenaged Severus Snape and was still being done to Harry. She was indignant, positively incensed. She was angry on Professor Snape’s behalf for an incident that took place before she was even born. And Harry’s for being the continuing recipient of that event. Even recognizing the absurdity of the situation didn’t change the fact that for the first time in her long history of respecting her teachers, she really wanted to march up to the Headmaster’s office and punch him in his long, crooked nose. She was angrier now than when she’d discovered the House Elves. She had finally come to accept that the Elves took pride and joy in their service. She still thought that the Wizarding World took advantage of their need to serve, but she could only give the Elves an option, she couldn’t force them all into clothes no matter how much she wanted too.

The injustice she saw here made her just as angry. She wanted to do something. She wanted to protest. She wanted to picket the Headmaster’s office. She wanted to make buttons and charge everyone a Galleon. She suspected, however, that Professor Snape would be just as unappreciative of her actions as the house elves had been.

She wasn’t sure she was going to be able to let this go.


	2. Reconnaissance

Hermione was still fuming and thinking about the conversation she'd overheard as she made her way slowly back up to the Gryffindor rooms. She was so wrapped up in her thoughts that she paid little attention to the castle around her.

The pictures, however, noticed her distraction and whispered comments to each other on her inattentiveness. They were used to seeing the Gryffindor girl striding purposefully no matter where she was off to, head held high and determination in her steps. Now she wandered, almost aimlessly, her head down and her steps guided more from autopilot than any true will of her own. More than one painting also commented on the ferocious scowl that marked her features.

Not only the pictures, but the castle itself seemed to notice her internal preoccupation since the stairs, instead of letting her step out into empty air, turned and formed themselves into the correct alignment to get her safely back to her dorm with the least amount of backtracking or fuss.

"Password, dear?"

"Wha-?" Hermione raised her head to find herself outside the portrait door to Gryffindor Tower with no clear idea of how she'd gotten there.

The Fat Lady, long used to dealing with distracted teenagers, and having been alerted to the girl's unfocused state by the other paintings, simply repeated her question.

Flushing a bit at being caught in her mental wanderings, Hermione gave the password with only a semi-forced smile. "Bubble, bubble, toil and trouble." As she crawled through the door, she had to wonder if Professor McGonagall hadn't been reading Shakespeare when she chose this week's particular password.

The common room was its usual noisy, crowded, and controlled bit of chaos. Gryffindors, by nature, seemed to be the loudest House of the four. While the noise and chaos could get on her nerves on occasion, it was just the thing to pull a person out of too deep thoughts. She was ready to admit that when it came to what she'd overheard; her thoughts were very deep indeed.

Spotting Harry and Ron across the room engaged in a battle of Wizard's Chess, she crossed the room, threading her way past several groups of students, younger and older, that were scattered around the room. Snippets of conversations reached her as she passed each one.

" . . . eight uses of Nightshade? He's nuts. I can only find five uses of Nightshade. I tell you, Snape must be making up those extra three uses . . ."

" . . . are the Chudley Cannons going to pull it off this season, especially with O'Reilly sidelined?"

"Snape gave me detention with Filch for tomorrow night . . . "

"I love that color on your nails. Can you show me the charm you . . ."

". . . did you hear that he made a first year Hufflepuff cry today . . ."

The walk back to the tower had calmed her initial burst of anger, but she could still feel it bubbling just below the surface. Now, each repetition of Professor Snape’s name jabbed at her Gryffindor sense of justice, demanding she do something.

Intent on the game before them, Ron and Harry only glanced at her as she joined them at their table. She settled herself into a comfortably squashy side chair, its Gryffindor red upholstery worn along the tops of the arm rests from countless students over the years. She was rather glad of the boys’ distraction. She had too much on her mind to be good company this evening, so she scrunched down into the chair and turned her thoughts back to the conversation she shouldn’t have heard.

Harry finally looked up with a strained grimace on his face as one of Ron’s bishops decapitated one of his pawns. Catching Hermione’s eye, he pulled her out of her thoughts. “Tell me you’ve come to rescue me from this unfair slaughter?”

As Harry had only ever won one game against Ron, and that was the day that Ron was sick, running a fever and half delirious, Hermione wasn’t exactly overflowing with sympathy. “Harry, if you know you’re going to lose, why do you persist in playing him?”

Harry shrugged good-naturedly. “Hope springs eternal, I guess. I always think this time I’m going to trounce the redheaded blighter.”

The redheaded blighter in question sat up straight with an indignant, “Hey!”

Harry grinned unrepentantly back at his friend.

Turning up his nose in Harry’s direction, Ron swiveled to face Hermione. “So, did you get all your library research done? You promised you’d get out of the castle and go to Hogsmeade with us tomorrow if you finished. Besides, it’s going to be a real celebration what with the Ferret getting expelled for almost killing Harry.” Ron’s grin was wide and toothy with anticipation. “Do you think Dumbledore will make an announcement?” The sharky grin got even wider and his eyes twinkled in an unholy imitation of the Headmaster’s. “Ohh, maybe they’ll escort Malfoy through the Great Hall and out the front door in front of the whole school?”

Harry matched Ron's grin of delight. "Naaah, I think Malfoy will just slink away in the night like the slimy little snake he is. But, you have to feel sorry for Crabbe and Goyle with Malfoy gone; they won't have anyone to do their thinking for them."

Hermione opened her mouth to tell her friends that Malfoy wouldn't be leaving, but nothing came out. She couldn't seem to say anything. If she told Ron and Harry, they would want to know how she knew and for some reason she couldn't breach Snape's privacy like that. It felt wrong, like kicking someone when they were already down. It didn't matter in the end anyway, she reasoned, they'd find out soon enough that Malfoy wouldn't be going anywhere.

Hermione was also reluctant to share the knowledge of the listening device she’d found. Harry was no longer sunk into the deep depression that Sirius Black’s death had thrown him into, but even now little things had a way of setting him off into either anger or misery. Christmas holidays a few weeks earlier had been hell on all of them as Harry had alternately turned inward and struck out at his friends. She didn’t think that Harry would handle the additional knowledge of being spied on well, even though the spying device wasn’t meant specifically for him. He would view it as one more strike against the adults that were trying to both protect him and ensure that he had the necessary knowledge and abilities to defeat Voldemort when the time came.

“So, Hermione, Hogsmeade?” Ron asked again.

It’s for the best, she thought, while trying not to think about the fact that she was keeping a very large secret from her two best friends.

“Sure,” she answered, forcing a smile for their benefit. Feeling decidedly uncomfortable about keeping secrets from her friends, she decided to retreat to her room before she was forced to actually tell any lies rather than just withholding the truth. Standing up, Hermione gathered up the books she’d originally gone to the library to get. “I’ll meet you guys in the Great Hall for breakfast and we can head out to Hogsmeade together. Good-night.”

With distracted “good-nights” the boys turned back to their game and Hermione headed for the girls’ dormitory.

++++++

Staring up into the shadowed folds of her canopy, Hermione listened to the soft snores of Lavender in the bed across from her. She’d given up trying to sleep over an hour ago. She’d learned a long time ago that when her mind was filled with questions, sleep was the first thing to desert her. Tonight she just couldn’t seem to shake herself lose from thoughts about Professor Snape and the overheard conversation. She wasn’t exactly sure why she was so angry on his behalf, but there was just something about the circumstances of what was done to him, of the assumptions made about the characters of young Sirius, James, and Professor Snape, that rankled deep inside her. It was that same sense of outrage that had made her start SPEW, an outrage that made her decide that since no one else would stand up for the house elves, she would.

Sitting up in the dark, she released some of her pent-up frustration, punching her pillow into a more comfortable shape before lying back down on her side. Reaching out in the dark, she rubbed her fingers through Crookshanks’ warm fur. It was the same feeling that had led her to choose the ginger-haired tom that day in Diagon Alley at the Magical Menagerie. Crookshanks had been a fur-matted monster with an ugly, squashed face and a hissing, biting temperament that caused all other shoppers at the store to pass him by time after time. No one else had wanted the half-Kneazle. Hermione had taken one look at him and hadn’t even hesitated.

She rubbed one silky ear, until a slumbering Crooks flicked it out of her grasp. She’d seen something else in the cat that day. She’d given him a chance and he’d proved his worth time and again since that day she’d bought him.

So what about Professor Snape? Hermione smiled in the dark at the image of her Potions professor as a hissing, ugly, mangy, black-furred Kneazle. The analogy was too simple though. She knew that. Professor Snape was entirely too complicated a man to be put into a box entitled ‘Reminds me of my cat and house elves’ and yet he did.

She’d never really given Professor Snape much serious thought. He had a nice, neat label in her mind -- Teacher, Nasty, Approach with Caution, Dumbledore Trusts Him. That label defined him and her interactions with him, but she’d always dealt with him on a superficial level. Now she wanted to dig deeper. Of course, what she was contemplating now was foolish, the kind of foolishness that generally gave Gryffindors their leap-before-you-look reputations, but she just couldn’t seem to let the idea of Professor Snape go. She needed more information, the kind of information you couldn’t find reading a book. She needed information from hands-on research and the only way to get that was by spying on Professor Snape.

_Spying on the spy._

She could think of few things more dangerous to an overly curious student than stalking that most dangerous of Hogwarts’ teachers, the decidedly deadly Head of Slytherin.

Yet, regardless of her apprehension, she had questions and Hermione Granger was never one to turn away from the unanswered question. She’d seen something beyond servitude in the elves and beyond ill temperament in Crookshanks. _If she really looked, what would she see in Professor Snape?_

++++++

For all that Hermione had got very little sleep the night before she still beat both boys down to the Great Hall in the morning. She wasn’t upset though since it gave her a few quiet minutes to observe the Head Table in peace. In keeping with her thoughts the previous night, Hermione moved around the Gryffindor table, sitting across from her usual seat to eat breakfast this morning. Her new vantage point would allow her to watch the teachers without having to crane her neck around to watch; an exercise she felt sure Professor Snape would notice.

Keeping her head down and nibbling on a piece of toast she studied the Head Table from under her lashes. She was somewhat surprised to see Professor McGonagall wearing the pinched look of disapproval that Hermione associated with an angry House Head. She would have thought that the headmaster and the assistant headmistress would have settled their differences. However, the stiff-necked way the Transfiguration mistress sat beside the headmaster indicated that whatever else had been said last night after Hermione stopped listening, it was obvious that Professor McGonagall was still angry. For a moment Hermione wished she could see beneath the teachers’ table to see if the headmaster was wearing socks. Given that look, she somehow doubted it.

Sliding her gaze down the table, she focused on where Snape sat picking listlessly at his meal. Trying hard not to view the man through the lens of ‘feared Potions master,’ Hermione tried to see him objectively. The picture coming into view before her was rather startling. The man she normally associated with tightly controlled power was sitting dull and listless. He looked tired with faint shadowed smudges deepening the set of his eyes. His sallow skin had an unhealthy cast to it. She’d always just dismissed his look as too much time locked away in the dungeons away from the sun, but looking at him now, he looked almost sick, as if he’d not had a good night’s sleep or eaten well in a long time.

Hermione wasn’t sure how long she gazed at him, but it wasn’t long before his eyes snapped up to scan the Great Hall. Dropping her eyes, she concentrated on buttering another piece of toast. Only when that task was done did she risk raising her eyes again. As before, it didn’t take long for him to sense someone watching him. This time Professor Snape’s scan of the Hall happened even faster, so fast in fact that he caught her in his gaze, a sneer of what she was sure was contempt curling his upper lip into a silent snarl.

“Oy, Hermione!”

Ron’s loud greeting broke the connection between her and Professor Snape. She lowered her gaze back to her breakfast but the damage had already been done for the day. He would be wary now; she was going to have to be sneakier if she was going to avoid his suspicions.

Deciding to ignore her enigmatic professor for the time being, she turned her attention to Ron and Harry as they seated themselves across from her. Ron wasted no time in heaping eggs and bacon onto his plate while Harry reached for the pumpkin juice.

Halfway through breakfast, while Ron debated on whether he needed one or two more rashers of bacon, Hermione realized that she’d learned something important during her first foray as a stalker. Snape was, for lack of a better term, extremely high strung. He was like a thoroughbred racehorse, wound up so tight that he was sensitive to the least little thing. The man seemed to have an uncanny sense of when he was being watched. That he’d been able to tell that one student out of a three hundred had been focused on him said a lot about his level of paranoia, his sensitivity, and the power of his magic. It was rather unnerving.

It was like living under the pressure of NEWTs week all the time with no relief. It was no wonder he was always snapping and biting students’ heads off. If she carried that much tension around her all the time, she’d probably snap as well.

While Hermione remained lost in her thoughts, the boys continued their breakfast, talking about what they wanted from their anticipated stop at Honeydukes. As Ron finished his last bit of bacon, Professor McGonagall came up from behind Harry. “Mr. Potter, if you will come with me please.”

Ron made as if to get up out of his seat as well but stopped halfway up at Professor McGonagall’s next words. “Not you, Mr. Weasley.” Exchanging a semi-worried glance with Ron and Hermione, Harry headed off behind the briskly moving professor.

Ron settled back down after throwing a worried glance towards Harry’s retreating form. “What do you suppose that’s about? The professor didn’t look too happy.”

“I’m sure Harry will tell us when he gets back,” Hermione answered. “It’s probably just something about class.” Hermione winced inwardly at her words. She had a good idea of why Professor McGonagall wanted to speak with Harry alone and knew it wasn’t going to go over well.

That expectation was confirmed when Harry swept back into the Great Hall with a furious expression on his face, the air around him fairly crackling with barely controlled magic.

“Harry, what-?”

“Not here,” Harry snarled, cutting Ron off. Narrowing angry green eyes at the faces turned curiously in their direction, he grabbed up his and Ron’s cloaks, thrusting the heavy black fabric into his friend’s arms. “Let’s go!”

Hermione scrambled to get her winter cloak around her before Harry, with Ron trailing behind him, headed back towards the door.

Harry’s swift, angry strides took them out onto the grounds at an almost run. Only once past the gates of Hogwarts did his pace slow to a more measured walk and the aura of emotionally fueled, uncontrolled magic hovering around him settle down.

Ron decided that was his cue to start the questioning, as usual, getting straight to the point. “What happened, mate?”

“They aren’t expelling him.” There was no need to explain to whom Harry was referring.

“Impossible! They have to expel him.”

“Oh, no they don’t. They don’t have to do anything.” Harry raised his pitch to imitate Professor McGonagall. “You have to understand our position, Mr. Potter. We have to tread carefully right now, Mr. Potter. I’m sure that Mr. Malfoy only meant to play a prank, Mr. Potter.” Harry dropped the falsetto to return to his own voice. “A prank! McGonagall and Dumbledore want me to believe this was all a harmless prank.”

Ron’s temper joined with Harry’s. “Are you kidding? Malfoy tried to brain you. How could they even think about letting him stay?”

Harry had stopped walking forward now and taken to pacing in a tight circle around Hermione and Ron, Hermione turning on her heel so that Harry always remained in front of her.

“Oh, it gets even better,” Harry said. “Not only does the so-called Prince of Slytherin stay, but I’m not supposed to talk about it with anyone that doesn’t already know.”

“Did they make you take a Wizarding Oath?”

That stopped Harry in his tracks, his eyes wide. “No. But how am I supposed to save the world from Voldemort if Malfoy 'accidentally' takes me out first?”

It was a mark of how angry Ron was that he didn’t even flinch at Harry’s use of the dark wizard’s name. “This is bloody well insane.”

Even knowing it was a losing battle; Hermione stepped into her role as the voice of reason. “Harry, the Headmaster and Professor McGonagall were right. They have to look at the larger picture. They can’t afford to make a stand now and draw attention to Hogwarts.” Hermione dropped her voice down to a harsh whisper. “Not to mention, sending Malfoy away from the school could put Professor Snape’s life in danger. V-Voldemort would punish the professor for not protecting Malfoy. You know he would.”

Harry’s eyes were hard and unforgiving. “Then the great bat would get what he deserves. He joined the Death Eaters. Let him reap what he bloody well sowed.”

Hermione drew back in shock. Over Harry’s left shoulder she could see that even Ron’s face reflected a degree of uneasiness at his friend’s words.

Hermione’s face flushed as her anger rose. Her own troubled thoughts and feelings concerning Professor Snape came forth in her words. “You arrogant, sanctimonious prat! Professor Snape made a mistake when he was eighteen years old. It was a huge, ugly mistake, I’ll grant you, but a mistake he’s been trying to fix ever since. He’s done nothing but try to protect all three of us time and again. We might not like his methods, but we are all still alive.”

She remembered the comment about Malfoy still being redeemable and added, “We also don’t know the Headmaster and Professor Snape’s ultimate plans, having Malfoy at the school could be important. And Dumbledore didn’t expel Sirius when he almost killed Professor Snape during a prank. Is it only Gryffindors who get special treatment?” Hermione didn’t know why she said that last bit but knew the words were wrong even as they left her mouth as Harry’s face went white and then blood red.

“This,” Harry hissed, “is nothing like that. Sirius pulled a prank on a nosy Snape. Malfoy could have hurt me.”

“But-” Hermione stopped when it became clear that Harry wasn’t listening anymore. Her anger drained away leaving an odd sadness. The cycle started twenty years ago was beginning again.

Harry wasn’t done though. “You are right about one thing. There is something in common. Snape is at fault.”

“Harry!”

As Harry rounded on her, Hermione stepped back, suddenly afraid of the expression of her friend’s face. “He had something to do with this. He isn’t to be trusted and this proves it. And you know what? I'm tired of you defending him. That bastard isn’t worth anyone defending him.”

With those last words, Harry spun around and started walking towards Hogsmeade. Hermione found herself rooted to the spot, Harry’s last words still ringing in her ears. Ron cast desperate glances between Hermione and Harry’s rapidly retreating back, unsure of what he should do.

Feeling very tired suddenly, Hermione looked at Ron as she tilted her head in Harry’s direction. “Go on, catch up with him. Talk to him . . . calm him down.” She made a vague, helpless gesture with her hands. “Do what you can. I’ll go back to the castle.”

Ron stared hard at her for a long moment before nodding. Spinning on his heel he took off after Harry.

The walk back to the castle was a cold one, January winds whipping around her cloak and tangling her hair into knots that would take her hours later to work through. Colder than the winds though were Harry’s last words.

_That bastard isn’t worth anyone defending him._

Was that really true? Didn’t everyone deserve to have someone on his or her side? Someone to keep watch while they slept? Someone to worry about them? Her face twisted into a scowl at her next thought -- even Voldemort had Pettigrew.


	3. Do I or Don't I?

Thoughts on Professor Snape kept her company over the next several days. Days in which Harry still wasn’t speaking to her and Ron bounced between being caught up in Harry’s righteous anger and feeling sympathy for Hermione’s estrangement from their little circle. Ron was doing what Ron did best. He was supporting Harry, giving him an ear and the solid presence that Harry needed. Yet, in his own way, Ron was doing his best to support her as well, acting as a buffer between her and Harry until they could get their friendship back on its usual even keel.

Only that remaining connection to Ron saved Hermione from sinking into the crying mess she’d become her third year when both Harry and Ron had excluded her from their friendship. Now, like then, she’d searched for something to occupy her mind with. Then she’d had extra classes and researching Buckbeak’s defense for Hagrid. Now she had Snape stalking.

Of course, the more she watched Professor Snape the more she wondered if her estrangement from Harry was worth it. She could understand Harry and Ron’s dislike of the professor. He was an easy man to see in shades of absolute black and white, a tendency of view that the professor seemed to encourage.

Hermione wasn’t stupid. With the knowledge that she possessed about Professor Snape’s true loyalties and ‘extracurricular’ activities, it was no great leap in logic to come to the conclusion that much of Professor Snape’s behavior was a carefully crafted and maintained smoke screen. He was like a Muggle magician keeping everyone focused on his outward appearance and less than likeable personality while totally distracting the casual observer from noticing the very dangerous intelligence that gleamed behind his eyes.

She liked to think of herself as something other than a casual observer because she was starting to catch glimpses of the man behind the smoke, and everything she’d seen increased her conviction that Professor Snape was in need of someone to stand in his corner.

And yet . . . and yet, he wasn’t a house-elf. He wasn’t a half-Kneazle in need of a home. He was a grown man and a powerful wizard and from her observations she suspected that the persona of ‘Evil Potions master’ wasn’t all that far from the truth of who and what Severus Snape really was.

Harry’s assertion that Snape didn’t deserve to be defended was wrong. She knew it with a deep certainly. Hermione’s doubts, however, were centered on another question: was Professor Snape her responsibility? He was worth being protected, but was he worth the risk of losing her two best friends? She wasn’t the isolated outsider that she’d been as a Muggle-born first year. She had other friends and acquaintances in her own House and in Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff now. But Harry and Ron were special. Were her convictions strong enough to keep her standing tall when Harry turned away from her? And Ron, right now he was doing his best to still stay by her, but she knew Ron. Eventually Ron would drift away and she’d be alone.

Even if she decided to make her stand, what could she do? Professor Snape wouldn’t appreciate buttons or Snape Club dues. There would be no newsletters or impassioned speeches in the Great Hall about how Professor Snape was really just some misunderstood, Heathcliff-type hero who was risking his life to help the Order overthrow the evil plans of the Dark Lord.

Hermione looked up at the High Table. Professor Snape was once again picking at his food in a moody silence, a habit that Hermione had become very familiar with. In the time she'd been watching him, she’d never once seen him actually eat an entire meal. When she saw him start to tense up, she redirected her gaze back down to the Gryffindor table, where her gaze was caught by Ron and Harry. They had started sitting several seats down from her with Dean and Seamus and they were currently laughing and joking about something. Seamus seemed to be trying to flip peas into Ron’s pumpkin juice whenever Ron looked away. They were having a good time.

Hermione sighed. She couldn’t say she was having a good time.

++++++

“I would rethink that decision, Longbottom.”

At that quietly issued command, Hermione froze, her hand partway raised to add the fluxweed seeds to her potion. A second later she continued the motion, dropping the seeds in a steady stream into the bubbling mixture before her.

Keeping her head down, she glanced over to where Professor Snape stood glowering down on a hapless Neville. She sucked in a short breath when she recognized the narrow, saw-toothed edged leaves clutched in Neville’s shaking, white-knuckled grip. Fluxweed leaves, not seeds. _Oh Neville._

“Longbottom, do you know what would have happened had you added those fluxweed leaves?”

Hermione winced as Professor Snape emphasized the word leaves in a sibilant verbal caress that had the hair standing up on the back of her neck. Off to her side she could hear the excited whispering of the Slytherins on the other side of the room, while behind her she could hear the nervous shuffling of Ron’s feet. She didn’t need to look around to know that everyone’s eyes were focused on the drama about to unfold.

“Does anyone in this class of supposedly academically superior students know what will happen to this particular potion if fluxweed leaves are added at this juncture of the brewing?”

Hermione tilted her head, her mind running over the various ingredients used so far. Just as she got to the asphodel she sucked in a startled breath in realization, her head snapping up to look into Neville’s wide, terrified gaze. Not wanting to open her mouth and draw attention to herself, Hermione still found herself unable not to answer to the question asked of the class. Eyes still trapped in Neville’s panicked gaze, she slowly raised her hand.

“Ah, it would seem that Miss Granger has worked out the problem. How typical. Well, Miss Granger, do enlighten us as to the issue at hand.”

“Poisonous gas, sir. The fluxweed leaves would have combined with the asphodel and the mistletoe berries to create a poisonous gas. The entire c-class," she stumbled slightly over the word before continuing, “would have died within the hour.”

“Very good, Miss Granger. Two points to Gryffindor.”

Hermione heard snickering from the Slytherin side of the room at Professor Snape’s generosity with the house points. A piercing look from their House Head, though, and even that side of the room fell silent.

“A poisonous gas.” He looked around the room catching the eyes of his students in his fierce gaze. “A poisonous gas that is colorless. A gas that, thankfully, is not odorless as well.”

Turning back to Neville, Hermione watched as a small smile lifted one corner of Professor Snape’s lips. It was a look that sent cold tendrils of fear snaking up her spine, fear that was confirmed by the professor’s next words. “Drop the fluxweed leaves, Mr. Longbottom.”

Neville, still shaking slightly from being the center of attention, moved his hand over to the surface of his scarred worktable. The professor stopped him before he could drop the leaves. “No, Mr. Longbottom. Release the leaves into your cauldron.”

Hermione saw Neville go stark white in terror and heard Harry hiss, “Leave him alone,” from behind her.

Snape didn’t even turn around to face Harry as he snapped out, “Twenty points from Gryffindor, Potter, for speaking out of turn. Mr. Longbottom, I suggest you drop those leaves, NOW!”

Neville could no more disobey that tone in Professor Snape’s voice than he could fly without a broom. Neville’s hand jerked, his fingers splayed wide as a dozen slightly wilted fluxweed leaves tumbled into the swirling, bubbling cauldron.

The Slytherins, with Malfoy in the lead, were halfway to the door of the classroom before the leaves ever hit the potion’s surface.

Just as Malfoy was reaching for the great brass handle of the doors, the sound of locks snapping into place echoed around the room. Someone near the door started whimpering as the smell of something sweet and cloying started to fill the room.

Professor Snape had finally flipped. He was going to kill them all.

Ignoring the rising babble of panic at the door of the classroom, Hermione pulled her wand and spun around in her chair to face Harry and Ron. “Use the Bubble-head Charm.”

Hermione jumped as a heavy hand clamped down on her upraised hand, stopping the fluid movements needed for the charm. “Ten points from Gryffindor, Miss Granger, for interfering in my lesson.”

Professor Snape raised his voice to cut through the noise while his coal-black eyes swept the mass of students gathered at the classroom door. “The first person to use the Bubble-head Charm will spend the rest of the term in detention with me.”

Beginning to wheeze from the sweet scent eddying around her, Hermione looked at her fellow students in shock. None of them were lifting their wands. She couldn’t believe they were more afraid of Professor Snape than they were of dying from poisonous gas.

Swinging her gaze back to her professor, she stared at him in horror, even as the invisible fumes from Neville’s potion turned poison coated her tongue and the back of her throat with the taste and smell of a thousand rotting roses.

Very slowly, his left eyebrow rose in challenge, daring her to speak out again.

Neville Longbottom, his Gryffindor store of courage exhausted, took that opportunity to faint at Professor Snape’s feet. Or, a slightly hysterical portion of Hermione’s mind noted, he might have been done in by the gas.

Neville’s collapse pushed Harry and Ron over the edge. With a snarl of, “You bastard!” Harry attempted to launch himself across the intervening worktables at Professor Snape’s back, Ron close on the heels of his friend.

Both boys, however, forgot that they were dealing with a man who, while maybe not as powerful as Dumbledore, was dangerous all the same. To Hermione, it was like watching a horrible accident and being able to do nothing about it except watch in horrified fascination.

Just as Harry slid across his worktable, Professor Snape raised his hand, the one that firmly gripped Hermione’s hand and wand. “ _Funis Subnecto_ ,” he hissed, while forcing Hermione’s hand and wand in a short S-shaped forward movement. She felt the surge of the professor’s magic as it was channeled from his hand through her wand and was horrified as she felt her own power rise up in answer to his, joining together to cast the spell that was aimed at her friends. Neither had the opportunity to evade as thin, snake-like cords shot out of her wand to wrap around Harry and Ron.

Within seconds Harry was pinned to the surface of the work-desk, the cords wrapping themselves around the desk legs to hold him tight. Ron was brought to his knees on the floor beside the desk, wrapped up so tight he resembled a corded cocoon.

Hermione turned stunned and horrified eyes back up to see a satisfied half-smile on her professor’s face.

“Always wanted to do that,” he murmured absently as if he spoke more to himself than to her.

Still keeping both of their hands clasped around her wand, Professor Snape turned toward the crowded mass of students with a muttered, “Mindless sheep.”

Hermione was fairly sure she was the only one who heard the softly voiced comment. His next words though were pitched to carry across the room. “Mr Bloodsaw.”

“S-Sir?” Thomas Bloodsaw, a sixth year Ravenclaw managed to stammer.

“Tell me, Mr Bloodsaw,” Snape’s demeanor and tone no different than if he was asking a question during one of his normal lectures, “what does fluxweed gas smell like?”

Thomas, Hermione noted, had a corner of his school robes pressed over his mouth and nose. His voice came out muffled from the cloth. “R-Rotten flowers, sir.”

“Excellent. Five points to Ravenclaw.”

“Mr Malfoy, will you ever forget this smell?”

“No, sir.” Malfoy’s less timid answer was somewhat spoiled by the gagging, coughing fit that hit him as he drew in his next breath.

”Good! See that you never forget it.”

Again using Hermione’s wand, Professor Snape intoned “Evanesco” and the contents of Neville’s cauldron as well as the sickly smelling gas disappeared. Another wave and the classroom doors opened on silent hinges. However, not a single student moved towards the door.

_Sheep, indeed_ , she thought in something very close to disgust.

Snape must have thought the same because she heard again the faint huff of contemptuous amusement. “Out. All of you out. Report to Madam Pomfrey,” Professor Snape said as he swept a cold gaze once more across the class. Abruptly he released Hermione’s hand and wand. “Free your friends, wake up Longbottom and report to the Infirmary.”

Spinning on his heel, he retreated back towards his office leaving Hermione staring in stunned amazement after him.

++++++

The topic of conversation throughout all of the Great Hall during the lunch hour predictably focused on Professor Snape. Most of the whispered conversations centered on whether the black bat of Hogwarts had finally cracked. More than one student stated that they’d known all along that Snape was insane and that trying to kill off his 6th year advanced Potions class was definitive proof.

Professor Snape’s outrageous behavior even eclipsed Ron and Harry’s aborted attempt at an attack on a professor. In fact, that was hardly given a passing mention. A development that Hermione, along with Harry and Ron, all felt was a great blessing.

In fact, the whole episode had rattled them all so much that Harry had forgotten that he was currently mad at Hermione. Of course, the fact that the morning’s incident seemed to bolster Harry’s conviction that Snape was not to be trusted could have had something to do with his smug smile.

“Blimey! Did you see his eyes? He was enjoying himself. Completely off his rocker, he was,” Ron said around a mouthful of roast beef sandwich.

“He even forgot to give us detention,” Harry added. This seemingly simple statement confirmed to the rest of the Gryffindor table that Snape had indeed lost it. The Great Bat did not miss out on any opportunity to give Gryffindors detentions.

The whole incident just confused Hermione. She felt betrayed. He’d tried to kill them. It still didn’t sound real, even to her and she’d been there through the whole experience. Professor Snape had poisoned his entire class. Rumors were flying through the school. The man who held the title of ‘Scariest Teacher in Hogwarts’ History’ had just grown his reputation to near mythical proportions. And she’d defended him. She’d felt sorry for him. She’d begun to think of him as some black-coated, overgrown, misunderstood house elf that only needed someone to stand up for him.

Death put a whole new spin on everything. That was it. She was off the Professor Snape-just-needs-a-friend- bandwagon. He’d even been willing to kill off his Slytherins! The man was a complete menace. To make the whole experience even more surreal, the man hadn’t even blinked. Not once. He gave no sign he was affected at all. Not a single tremble, not a nervous twitch. He’d not even broken a sweat.

If ever she’d wanted a sign from above about how to make her choice between her potion’s professor and her friends, she’d certainly received one. Catching Harry’s attention, Hermione settled her Gryffindor courage to eat a little crow. “Harry, I want to apologize for the other day. I . . . well, you were right. He’s not to be trusted.”

Her softly voiced apology stopped her two friends in their tracks. Ron even stopped with his sandwich raised halfway to his mouth. There was no mistaking the huge grin that slowly spread over his face. With Hermione’s apology, Ron was no doubt envisioning a peaceful return to their three-sided friendship.

Harry, in turn, gave her a smile. Easy as that, balance was restored. Or so she thought.

Wide grin still in place, Ron nudged Harry. “You know, mate, now that Hermione there has seen Snape for his true colors, I think she ought to be brought into the fold of the enlightened in true style.” Ron managed to sound like Percy at his most snooty.

Harry grinned at Ron and then cast a sly glance at Hermione. “Repeat after us,” Harry said. “Snape.”

“Professor Snape,” she dutifully repeated.

“Ah, ah, ah,” Ron admonished. “Not Professor Snape. Just Snape. Come walk on the dark side, Hermione.”

Hermione gave a soft, rather unladylike, snort. “Dark side? What are you, the red-headed Darth Vader?”

Harry laughed at Ron’s confused look. “Don’t worry about it Ron, it’s a Muggle thing.” Still grinning, he turned back to Hermione. Elbows propped on the table he leaned forward and then carefully enunciated the word, “Snape” making sure to snap out the ‘p’ sound.

She rolled her eyes but dutifully repeated, “Snape.”

Ron added, “Greasy git.”

She huffed out a breath. “Is this really necessary?”

Ron raised both eyebrows and looked expectantly at her until she repeated, “Greasy git.”

Harry chimed in. “Black bat.”

This continued for some time with every imaginable name that the student body had ever called Professor Snape, until Ron’s turn ended with “Black-hearted bastard.”

Even as the words left her mouth she glanced up at the High Table only to meet the shuttered eyes of the man she’d just been disparaging. She expected him to be angry but he looked unexpectedly calm, his face an expressionless mask. She wondered how long he’d been watching them. Had he realized what she’d been saying? Ron and Harry’s backs were to him, he’d only have been able to see her.

She watched as he pulled his wand and made a small gesture and pointed his wand at her. Then very slowly, and with great deliberation he spoke, his words sounding right in her ear even though he never moved from his seat at the High Table. “Twenty points from Gryffindor. Detention. 7:00 o’clock.”

Hermione groaned and dropped her head into her hands in embarrassment.

++++++++

After lunch, Hermione retreated to library to hide. She’d stayed at long as she could before heading back to the Gryffindor common room, letting the moving staircases choose her path. They had never failed to deliver her to her correct destination when she was in a hurry, so when she wasn’t in a hurry she made no protest or complaint when the stairs delivered her to odd or lesser-used corridors. She liked to think of it as letting the stairs have their fun. Truthfully, she didn’t mind. Eventually, she’d end up where she needed to go. Tonight, she’d let the stairs do their worst. She needed the extra walking to settle her emotions before she had to face Professor Snape later that evening.

Detention. She had detention. She had detention for disrespecting a man she’d defended from the very same disrespect for six long years. Somewhere, she was sure that the Fates were laughing hard at her expense.

But really, it wasn’t as if she had said anything that a hundred other students over the years hadn’t said first. And he deserved it. He did, always being grouchy, mean, and humorless with never a nice thing to say, especially if you happened to be a Gryffindor. She was fairly sure he didn’t feel the day was complete unless he’d made at least one Hufflepuff cry.

The man was horrible and any sympathy, any pity, that she thought she was feeling for him was well and truly gone. She would not feel guilty about the names she’d called him. Childish, maybe, but not guilty.

Glancing at her wristwatch, she noted the time. She was fairly sure she knew which hallway she was in. If she were correct, a couple of turns further on would put her in the intersection where Professor McGonagall’s rooms were located. Picking up her pace, she set off down the corridor.

Hermione’s only warning that she wasn’t alone was the call of “Severus” ahead of her in Professor McGonagall’s usual no nonsense tone of voice. The acoustics of the stone hallways did some very strange things to voices within the castle. Her teachers could easily be either just around the next turn or around the next four turns. One could never be sure. So it was only logical, not to mention prudent considering the fact that Professor Snape was probably still angry with her, that Hermione chose to cautiously peek around the corner to scout the lay of the land, as it were. A precaution that stood her in good stead, as through the arms of a standing suit of armor Hermione could clearly make out the forms of both the Potions professor and her Head of House.

She seemed to be making a habit out of eavesdropping on other people’s conversations, first the headmaster and Professor McGonagall, and now Professors McGonagall and Snape. Shaking her head, she briefly considered that it might be time to start worrying about this deviant behavior of hers. Tucking herself a little more firmly behind the convenient suit of armor, she decided that bad habit reforms could begin after she’d heard what her teachers were talking about.

++++++

“Severus.”

Hermione watched as Professor Snape stopped at the end of the hallway as Professor McGonagall called his name again. She was fully expecting to see her House Head berate the man for what had happened during class that morning. Hermione waited in gleeful anticipation. Having Professor McGonagall verbally flay the hateful man would do wonders for Hermione’s lingering guilt about disrespecting a teacher.

She was understandably surprised at the gently chiding tone that McGonagall took as she caught up with the Professor Snape. “Severus, how many times have I told you over the years that killing your students is considered bad form?”

Professor Snape snorted, though Hermione could see one corner of his mouth curl upwards in amusement. “Truth be told, Minerva, I have lost count. And you can save the lecture. The Headmaster has both slapped my wrists and given me a stern talking to. However, I would like to point out that I didn’t kill the little mongrels; I merely poisoned them. There is a distinct difference. I’d also like you to note that I sent them all off to Poppy long before any permanent damage was done. I think that showed remarkable restraint on my part given the circumstances.”

Surprisingly, McGonagall laughed. Hermione couldn’t believe it. The black-hearted bastard had tried to kill them and the woman who should be standing up for Gryffindor was laughing.

“Would you care to enlighten me as to why you tried to poison your Advanced sixth year class rather than just taking off numerous points from Gryffindor as is your wont?” McGonagall arched a brow and added slyly, “I’m assuming, of course, that it was a Gryffindor that set you on your path of student destruction?”

“Longbottom.” That single name was infused with such exasperation that even from her vantage point down the hall, Hermione couldn’t help but cringe in sympathy for Neville.

The Transfiguration teacher shook her head, but Hermione could see the look of commiseration on her face, even as she chided her fellow teacher. “Even Mr. Longbottom is no excuse for murder.”

“Oh, stop your over-exaggerations. Typical of a Gryffindor,” he huffed. “I was aware of what I was doing, as well you know. Besides, fluxweed leaf poisoning is fairly common. It’s one of the Office of Magical Accidents top twenty reasons for wizarding fatalities. I can assure you that after the demonstration today, no one from that class will ever kill themselves with the fluxweed seed versus leaves mistake. They will never forget the smell of the fluxweed gas.”

“Be that as it may, Severus, you got entirely too much joy out of the situation. You know you did.”

The professor inclined his head slightly in a mocking bow, yet his words held a note of gentle teasing. “Would you take away one of the few sources of joy in my otherwise miserable existence?”

McGonagall made a clucking sound in the back of her throat. “Yes, I would. And speaking of joy, you tied Mr. Potter to his desk.”

“Ah, the real reason for your pique comes forth. You don’t care that I tried to off my class, you care that I bruised young Mr. Potter’s ego. The boy tried to attack me. I was well within my rights to subdue him. I even did it gently.”

“He attacked you because you were poisoning everyone.”

Snape waved one fine-boned hand in a dismissive gesture. “It was for their own good. A little poisoning builds character.” Abruptly, Snape sighed and the slight smile he’d been wearing during the exchange faded back into his habitual scowl. “Now, if you will excuse me, I must be going.”

Professor McGonagall reached out a hand and touched his arm lightly, stopping him from moving. “You always do that.”

“You have lost me, Minerva. I always do what?”

Hermione thought Professor McGonagall looked sad when she answered. “You always pull away or turn aside. Severus, are you okay?”

The scowl on his face deepened but his tone was still civil as he answered. “I am fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“Minerva.”

“Forgive me, Severus. Sometimes I forget, you know.”

“Forget what?”

“That you are a friend. And don’t snarl at me. I’ve known you most of your life and I consider myself your friend. It is a testament to just how well you play your part that I forget that at times. I’m worried about you.”

Shoulders that had tensed at her first words slowly relaxed. “Your concern is . . . appreciated, but unnecessary. I am well and more than capable of taking care of myself.”

Even Hermione could tell that Professor McGonagall didn’t believe him, yet she allowed the lie to pass. “Very well, Severus. Will you at least join me for a cup of tea?”

“I would like that; however, I am on my way to supervise a detention of one of your Gryffindors.”

“One of mine? Which one?”

“Hermione Granger.”

“Miss Granger? That’s hard to believe, Severus. I’ve always found her to be a model student. Whatever has she done?”

“Let us just say that she finally bowed to the pressure of her friends in regards to my character.” With a faintly mocking smile, he added, “I’m rather surprised it took her six years to fall to Potter and Weasley’s influence. Now, if you will excuse me, I must get down to my classroom before Miss Granger arrives.”

Professor McGonagall remained in the hallway staring after the Potions master for a few minutes, her face grave. Hermione had no trouble reading the worry there.

++++++

Now Hermione felt guilty.

Professor Snape was an utter bastard but he’d been doing it for their ultimate benefit. Well, their benefit and his amusement, but still, mostly their benefit.

It was at times like these that she wished she were the swearing type. Like her first foray into eavesdropping, Hermione was now completely confused. Every time she had dealings with Professor Snape, she came away with a different view of the man. She was starting to feel like some kind of human yo-yo.

_So that left her where?_ Hermione heaved a sigh. She knew exactly where that left her – right back on the Professor Snape bandwagon off which she’d just recently hopped, simply because it was obvious that no one was going to look out for him. Professor McGonagall was sympathetic, but ultimately she’d just stood aside and looked worried. In fact, it looked like the man actively discouraged people from standing up for him.

If she could knit a hundred hats for elves that didn’t want them, she could certainly take up the banner of Professor Snape, a man who most certainly would not thank her for her efforts. As for Harry and Ron, well, she was going to have to keep her feelings a secret. She just hoped she didn’t end up regretting this.

++++++

_[1] Latin to English translation: ropes to tie_


	4. Operation S.N.O.R.T

Knocking on the thick Potions classroom door, Hermione pushed her way inside at the growled, “Enter.” She felt a shiver race down her spine as she stepped into the room. The dungeon room was cool, but the hard, bitter scowl on the face of the man sitting behind the desk was far colder. If she’d not seen it herself, she’d never have believed that this same man, not forty minutes earlier, had both teased and been teased by Professor McGonagall.

She briefly wondered if this Snape bandwagon she seemed so determined to ride wasn’t going to end up running her over instead.

She stopped a few feet away from his desk. She might as well start off the evening right. “Professor Snape, before my detention begins, I just want you to know that I . . . well, I want to apologize for the things I said in the Great Hall this afternoon. They were not only inappropriate, but uncalled for.” She wasn’t sure how she’d expected Professor Snape to react to her apology but his expression never changed. She wasn’t sure how to interpret his non-response.

“Your apology, Miss Granger,” he finally said, “is neither desired nor accepted. Neither will insincere platitudes of remorse earn release from your detention nor earn you a reprieve from your punishment detail.”

Trying to stay with her reaffirmed plan to see Professor Snape in a promising light, Hermione fought to keep the instinctive surge of anger from showing on her face. From the smirk quirking the professor’s lips, she was fairly sure her attempt was unsuccessful. Struggling to keep her temper, she counted to ten in her head before she answered. “I do not expect my punishment to be lessened, sir. I am guilty. I just want you to know that I’m sorry and that it won’t happen again. I let my anger at the time get the best of me.”

Eyebrows raised, Professor Snape gave a short grunt of blatant disbelief.

_So much for apologies_. “I’ll just get with the cauldron scrubbing then, sir.” At that, his expression finally changed. He looked amused to Hermione, which she was fairly certain was not a good sign.

“You will not be scrubbing cauldrons this evening, Miss Granger.”

“Sir? But I heard . . .“ She didn’t finish the thought. She certainly didn’t want him thinking she was criticizing his detentions.

One corner of his mouth quirked slightly upward. Professor Snape was definitely amused now, although she got the feeling that his amusement was at her expense.

“Miss Granger, let us use that vaunted intellect of yours for a moment, shall we? Tell me, before coming to Hogwarts what was your task every night after dinner with your happy little family?”

Hermione’s brow furrowed in confusion for a moment. “I washed the supper dishes and cleaned the kitchen. It was my job.”

The professor leaned back in his chair, lacing his fingers over his stomach. “Now, Miss Granger, would a child who grew up in the wizarding world have had such a chore?”

Hermione could only shake her head in amazement as she made the connections. There really was method to his madness. “No sir,” she answered. “In a wizarding household, either cleaning charms would have been used or house-elves would have done any manual cleaning.”

“Precisely. To give you a task which causes you no hardship defeats the purpose of a detention. Only those raised in the wizarding world get the dubious honor of cleaning cauldrons. I have a much more onerous endeavor for you this evening.”

Leaning forward abruptly, he rose to his full height, his robes settling around him in precise folds of darkness. “Come with me.”

Leading her to a worktable along the back wall, Professor Snape pointed to a wooden crate filled to the top with shiny, black beetles -- shiny, black, thankfully dead, beetles. “You, Miss Granger, will strip the carapace wing casings from each beetle and place them within this jar.” He pointed to a blue-tinted, wide-mouthed jar set back on the table. Pointing to another jar tinted a dark brown – which Hermione knew protected the contents from sunlight – he added, “Here, you will place the beetle eyes. Do be careful and try not to damage them as you pop them out of their little sockets. You will return the remainder of the beetles back to the crate. When your detention is over you will take the crate down to Hagrid. Have I made your instructions simple enough or do you have questions?”

Hermione looked at the crate of beetles and grimaced in distaste. “No sir, no questions.”

“Oh, glorious day,” he replied as he headed back to his desk. “No questions from she of the never-ending questions. Then I suggest you begin.”

Picking up her first finger-length beetle, Hermione wrinkled her nose at the slick, almost oily, texture of the wing casing between her fingers. Swallowing hard, she began her task. Forty or so bugs into her task, her body had fallen into a steady rhythm of pick up a beetle, slide her thumbnail between the head and thorax, pop the wing casings free, spin the bug, carefully pry out the bulbous eyes, drop eyes and wings into the appropriate jars and pick up the next beetle. After the first few, she even gave up cringing at the bug guts that were lodged beneath her short trimmed nails. Definitely incentive not to chew her nails for the next couple of weeks; much more effective than the foul tasting nail polish her mother had painted on her nails as a little girl to break her of her chewing habit.

Soon however, the mindless repetitive motions of her fingers set her mind to wandering. Idly, she glanced up at Professor Snape. His dark head was bent over his desk, a frown of concentration deepening the small line between his brows. The rolls of parchment at his elbow let her know that he was grading essays. She winced in sympathy as she watched the red tipped quill flash across one scroll. Some luckless student had earned an obviously scathing remark if his frown and the amount of ink used were any indication.

Making sure to keep her scrutiny to short intervals, Hermione alternated between watching her professor and eviscerating beetles. Eventually even Snape-watching grew tiresome, no longer preventing her from feeling bored. And a bored Hermione, her mother had always said, was never a good thing.

"Professor, may I ask you a question about this morning?" Her question hung heavily in the quiet of the room.

He didn't raise his head, but the quill in his hand stilled its motion. "No, Miss Granger, I will not, to you, or anyone else for that matter, explain my actions in this morning’s class."

Catching her bottom lip between her teeth she debated . . . did she dare his temper? "No sir, that wasn't what I wanted to ask."

That caught his attention. Sharp black eyes swept up to regard her with mild curiosity. "One question then, Miss Granger." He raised a cautioning hand before she could jump to her question. "One question only. I suggest you make it good one. If you bother me with some bit of inane stupidity, well, I have another crate of beetles in my storeroom."

She knew the threat of additional detention time wasn’t an idle one, yet in that brief second, a thousand questions all begging for answers tumbled through her mind – _What made him turn from Voldemort? Why was he helping Dumbledore? Why did he seem to hate Harry, Ron and herself so much? Why? Why? Why?_ Forcibly she reigned them all in. One question. She could do that. But was her question worth the risk of extra detention? There was only one way to find out. "When you used my wand in class this morning, my magic answered your call. I don't understand why that happened."

Professor Snape stared at her so long she decided he wasn't going to answer. She had just resigned herself to another night of bugs when he surprised her. "Being Muggle-born, it is no surprise that you would not know."

At the term "Muggle-born" Hermione went ramrod straight, bracing herself for the derision she knew was coming.

If she'd been surprised that he'd answered her, she was even more surprised at his next words. "Don't get your hackles up with me, Miss Granger. That was not a condemnation of your birth, merely a fact. By not having been raised within the wizarding world, you lack the social conditioning that creates the background of our culture. No matter how much you embrace our world, how much of it you learn about, there will always be cultural references, history, legends and attitudes that you will never understand until they are explained to you."

Hermione calmed slightly as she caught his meaning. She’d had similar thoughts over the years as she’d tried to find her place within the wizarding world. "No matter how much I want to be a part of this world, I will never be a . . . a native, if you will."

She felt a small surge of satisfaction as he raised one black brow at her words. She'd managed to surprise him, possibly even impress him. Seeing that opportunity, she added another thought that she’d been toying with for the last year, one she’d never felt comfortable voicing to Harry or Ron. "It's what makes me and other Muggle-borns such a threat to the wizarding world and such a rallying point for Voldemort and the Purebloods. In the strictest interpretation, I AM a threat to the wizarding way of life. My first eleven years were spent living in another culture. I do things differently. I see things differently. The Pureblood ideology is wrong, but some of their fears are understandable. Change is hard for any society, but especially so for a society as insular and slow growing as the wizarding world. I think part of that has to do with the longer lifespan that magic users have. It -"

“Five points for rambling, Miss Granger," snapped Professor Snape.

His words halted her mid-sentence. Feeling heat creep across her checks, she murmured a quick, "Sorry, sir."

"Yes, well, before you meandered your way so far off-topic --"

Hermione blushed again at his stinging tone, but wisely kept herself from reacting to his words, especially as Professor Snape got up out of his chair to take his standard lecturing stance in front of his desk. He was going to give a detailed answer to her question and she didn’t want to do anything to discourage him.

“We, as magic-users, have not always used wands to enhance our power,” he began. “Our ancestors used what is commonly known today as old magic. It was a magic that was based more on emotions, raw power and ritual rather than incantations. However, old magic was extremely draining to the magic-user because it used personal energies as its foundation to draw in elemental magics. Wands, of course, focus our magic and augment it, allowing us to perform greater feats of magic with less effort. The downside of this is that we no longer touch the elementals.

Hermione’s fingers twitched around the beetle in her hand, its shell crackling under the pressure of her fingers. She wanted a quill and parchment so she could take down notes. Whatever else could be said about Professor Snape’s, he had always imparted fascinating information that kept Hermione riveted during class.

Professor Snape, however, mistook her restless movements as some type of censure, for her remarked dryly, “I am getting to the point of your question. Patience, Miss Granger. You must first be grounded in the history to understand the present.”

She flushed again. Her discomfort seemed to appease him and he settled back into his impromptu lecture. “Now, without wands our ancestors banded together in circles to work greater feats of magic. However, what was discovered was that some people’s magic worked better together than others. They called it Affinity. While it is not all that common nowadays to know who has an Affinity for your magic, it is not rare either. The only reason that it is not as well known today is because we now use wands almost exclusively. There is no longer a need to unite power to accomplish larger workings, otherwise, more people would be aware of those who shared their Affinity. And before you get any kind of wild notions in your head about the nature of an Affinity, we do not share any kind of magical bond. My feelings on your worth aren’t going to change. We are not going to become instant friends. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir,” she answered dutifully. The loathing in which he’d said the word ‘friends’ left Hermione no doubt as to the professor’s feelings on that subject.

“Good. Affinity means only that my magic and yours mesh well together, that in a greater working our magics won’t clash or fight each other. That is why your magic responded to me when I cast the spell using your wand.”

“Does that mean. . .“

He raised a hand to silence her. “I distinctly remember saying you had the grace of one question.” His gaze shifted to the crate at her elbow. “And I believe you still have several hundred more beetles to go.”

Hermione followed his gaze to the crate. _Right. Bugs_. “Yes, sir.”

Silence quickly returned to the classroom.

++++++

Later that night after her detention finally ended, Hermione once again lay staring up at the canopy of her bed. She was really going to have to stop dithering about this. Either she was or she wasn’t going to involve herself with Snape. She winced slightly at that thought. _Involved with Snape_. It just sounded wrong. But realizing that she wasn't going to get any sleep until she'd settled her mind and committed herself to the project, Hermione levered herself back up into a sitting position.

Pulling out her wand from beneath her pillow, she whispered a soft "Lumos" and set the tip alight. A quick glance ensured that the curtains around her bed were pulled tight. It wouldn't do to disturb Lavender and Parvati at this late hour. Snaking out one hand from between the bed curtains, she quietly rummaged around in the drawer of her bedside table until she pulled out a small Muggle notebook and pen. There was something elegant to the wizarding preference for quill and ink but when you were sitting up in bed, writing, nothing beat a notebook and a good pen.

Getting comfortable, she propped the notebook on her knees and stared down at the blank page. A moment later, in a firm hand, she wrote:

**_S.N.O.R.T. – Snape Needs Our Respect Too_ **

She grinned down at the words, knowing Snape would have her picking beetles apart until she was as old as Professor Dumbledore if he ever saw that. It made her feel good to see the words there though, solid and real. In fact, she felt the same thrill she did every year when she sat down and created her revision schedules. It was a feeling of accomplishment begun.

The only question now, was where to start. She would have to be subtle, like a Slytherin, a method that didn't come naturally to her Gryffindor nature. However, selling buttons and writing newsletters as she'd done for S.P.E.W. would never work this time. She would have to start small and be very careful. It was the little things in a relationship that let another person know they were valued and respected after all.

That basic philosophy had driven many of her corrections when Harry or Ron had been less than respectful of Professor Snape in the past. But thinking about it now, had those automatic corrections from 'Snape' to ‘Professor Snape' really been heartfelt? Had she meant them herself or had she been just going through the motions? That would take some more thought, but giving him the respect he deserved as a professor was certainly the best place to start.

That decided, she added a single bullet point under her title.

• Respect

She didn't delude herself into thinking that Professor Snape would suddenly become Teacher of the Year if she politely called him 'Sir,' but she hoped that he'd take it in on a subconscious level. That was certainly the easiest place to start, but she wanted to make his life easier as well. Harry was wrong. Professor Snape did deserve to be defended as much as anyone else. She wanted to show Professor Snape that someone cared, that someone wanted to protect him for a change. Well, show him in a completely-anonymous-please-don't-ever-find-out-I'm-doing-this-and-kill-me kind of way.

So allowing for anything and everything, based on what little she knew about the private and taciturn man, what did Professor Snape need help with or protection from? Smiling ruefully, she added another bullet point for the first thing that popped into her head.

**_• Neville_ **

Then in parentheses, she expanded that thought.

**_• Neville (and dunderheads in general)_ **

It felt like a good start and she refrained from trying to add others for the time being. This was going to be about quality not quantity. She now knew where she was going to begin -- with herself, and Ron and Harry, IF she could do it such a way that didn’t anger or alienate the two boys.

Chewing absently on her pen cap, Hermione pondered bullet number two -- Neville. She knew that Neville was an endless source of frustration for the Potions master. His O.W.L.S. had proven his ability in Potions, but Neville was terrified of the professor and once that fear set in, he couldn't do anything right. She was sure though that with a little thought she could come up with something to relieve Professor Snape’s Neville induced headaches.

She stifled a yawned. Sleep was demanding her attention. Hermione was going to have to give some serious thought to how she would accomplish her goals for S.N.O.R.T.; however, nothing more was going to be accomplished tonight. She'd done enough for now -- she had goals. The rest would be worked out. Now she needed sleep.

Closing the notebook she slid it and the pen back into the bedside table drawer. Sliding back down under the covers she reached for her wand but stopped abruptly. Quickly sitting back up, she grabbed the notebook again and with a decisive flick of her wand set a concealment charm on the pages. To anyone else, the pages would look blank, and it had the added benefit of being a low-level spell. Unless someone was looking specifically for this particular concealment charm, it would go unnoticed by most witches or wizards. There was something to be said for the occasional subtle approach rather than the more obvious Gryffindor method of multiple, full powered wards that were the wizarding equivalent of a big padlock and flashing neon sign that practically screamed "I'm hiding a secret."

Feeling better, she whispered "Nox” and curled up in her comforter. This time, sleep came quickly.

++++++++

"Neville, can I talk with you a minute?"

Neville, his hands buried deep in the greenhouse's potting table, looked up and gave a good-natured grin. "Sure, Hermione." Hands full of dirt, he pointed with an elbow to the other side of the table. "Have a seat. Do you mind if I finish repotting these Astrogalus seedlings? I need to get them separated and into new pots before their roots dry out."

Hermione climbed up on one of the tall stools that lined the table, watching Neville's hands as he deftly separated the roots of the young plants arrayed before him. His touch was sure and precise as he gently detangled the twisted and knotted roots of the young plants. If only she could get this confident version of Neville into Potions class rather than the clumsy, nervous Neville that Snape inevitably brought forth.

As Hermione settled in, Neville gave her a look that Hermione could only interpret as resigned. "You're going to tell me something bad, aren't you?"

Hermione tried to control her startled expression but as Neville frowned, she figured she'd not done a good job of it. She'd certainly botched this up already. Reaching down, she swirled a finger through the potting soil, trying to come up with the best way to say what she needed to say. "It's not bad, Neville,” she began, “or, at least, it doesn't have to be bad. I just can't help you in Potions class anymore."

She tried to gauge Neville's reaction but he'd dropped his head down and was intently studying the dirt beneath his hands. "It's because you’re afraid I'm going to kill you too, isn't it?"

"Neville. That never even crossed my mind. I would never -" She stopped mid-sentence as what he'd said really registered. "Hold on a minute. What do you mean 'too'? Neville—"

Neville ducked his head back down. His voice was soft. "It was just Malfoy and a few of the other Slytherins from class."

"Oh, Neville. First off, never believe anything that prat Malfoy says. Second, I just can't help you in class anymore, but I want to help you out of class. Third, I'm not afraid you’re going to kill me in Potions class. I think Tuesday's class proved that if anyone is going to have the pleasure of either blowing us all up or poisoning us, it's going to belong to Professor Snape. In fact, I'd lay odds that he'd pay good Galleons to have that privilege."

Her last sentence did what she intended. Neville looked back up at her with a shy smile on his face. "He did seem to be having a good time. He was even smiling."

"Exactly."

"So, why can't you help me in class anymore?"

Given the nature of Neville's fears, Hermione didn't think it wise to explain her ultimate goals concerning Professor Snape. Instead she settled on a more general half-truth that Neville could more readily accept. "I've been thinking about it and I think I'm hurting you more than helping you. Neville, you proved you can handle Potions during your O.W.L.S. You don't really need me to tell you anything. Professor Snape simply scares you so much that you get all turned around. It doesn't help you overcome that fear when I'm there telling you answers or helping you brew your potion. And, to tell you the truth, I think it just makes him that much angrier with you, and me, when I do help you. You don't need help conquering Potions; you need help conquering Professor Snape."

Neville clenched a clod of dirt in his hand before opening his fingers to let the loose soil trickle back down. When he finally spoke, Hermione could hear the exasperation in Neville's voice. "I've tried to get over my fear of him, I really have, Hermione. I need his class. I know everyone thinks it's because I want to be an Auror. It's not. I want to work with plants. I'm good with those. But the really good professional greenhouses test and verify their own medicinal and magical plants. You have to know how to brew the test and control potions."

"Without poisoning everyone."

Neville let out a small sound of amusement. "Yeah, without poisoning everyone. The thing is, Hermione, I knew what Fluxweed leaves could do. It's a documented property of the plant. I know my plants. Snape . . ."

"Professor Snape," she corrected.

Neville continued as if she hadn't interrupted, ". . . just gets me so wound up that I can't think straight. All I can concentrate on is his presence looming over me."

"All right, we have a plan."

Neville blinked rapidly at her, his brow lowered in a confused frown. It was a look Hermione had grown used to seeing on Ron and Harry's faces over the years. "We have a p-plan?" he asked.

"Yes, we have a plan," she answered, in tones only field generals and bossy Gryffindors could properly manage. Rubbing her hands together, she brushed the dirt from her fingers. "We have double Potions on Tuesdays and regular Potions on Thursdays. You and I are going to meet on Mondays and Wednesdays after dinner which means that we'll meet tonight." She hopped down from her chair and headed towards the door. "Meet me in the Room of Requirement at 6:45 and take your normal seat."

The frown of confusion on Neville's face deepened. "My normal seat? I don't understand."

Hermione just smiled back at him. "You'll understand when you get there, Neville. Just sit and wait for me."

++++++

When Neville arrived in the seventh floor corridor that housed the Room of Requirement, a double set of doors were waiting for him; doors unlike the one that usually showed up when they were here for the DA meetings. These doors were seven feet of dark stained and scarred oak, banded with thick, black, cast-iron hinges.

Neville knew these doors. He'd stood in front of them at least twice a week for the last six years. They were his very own personal Gates of Hell. Even knowing that they were just doors into the Room of Requirement couldn't stop six years of conditioning. Neville's palms began sweating and he could feel his heart beginning to beat faster in his chest.

Now he understood Hermione’s admonishment to take his normal seat.

_Merlin, save me._ Although at this point, he wasn't sure whether he needed saving from Snape and Potions or friends who wanted to help him. Taking a deep steadying breath, Neville gathered his courage like he did every other time he faced these doors. Then, on his exhale, he pushed on the cool wood and entered the Potions' classroom. He stopped two feet inside the door. It was the Potions classroom, right down to the always lingering smell of smoke and herbs in the air.

Hoping that Hermione knew what she was doing, Neville made his way to his usual table where the ingredients for the potion he’d messed up Tuesday were laid out in neat rows. He picked up a few of the Fluxweed leaves and rubbed them between his fingers -- such small things to have caused such a fuss. Setting them carefully back down on the workbench, he picked up one of the containers that sat on the edge of his desk. Its label was creamy white and blank, waiting on him to label it with the name and date of a finished, perfectly brewed potion.

Even expecting it, he jumped when the door behind him slammed open cracking loudly against the stone wall. Catching a swirl of black teaching robes out of the corner of his vision, Neville panicked and the delicate glass potion container slid between suddenly nerveless fingers to shatter against the floor.

Neville cringed and waited with his eyes closed for the deduction in House points that were sure to follow. He was shocked, when instead of cold disdain he heard the exasperated tones of Hermione Granger sound behind him. “Oh, Neville.”


	5. First Engagements

“Hermione?”

Neville stared in shock. The person standing in front of him had certainly sounded like Hermione. He’d heard, “Oh, Neville,” in that tone of voice too many times over the years to mistake it for anyone else but Hermione; but it was a transformed Hermione that stood in front of him now. She looked like Snape! Or, she looked like Snape, if Snape had been born a petite, bushy-headed girl.

In a kind of daze, Neville slowly ran his eyes over her hair, down to her feet and then back up to her head again. She was dressed head-to-toe in black; she was even wearing thick-heeled boots that gave her form added height. She’d gone so far as to charm her hair black. She’d not changed the length or the corkscrew curls that gave it its bushy nature, but there was no mistake that she was impersonating the dreaded Potions master. Even knowing it was just Hermione playing dress-up, Neville still swallowed hard as he met her glamoured black eyes. Hermione as Snape . . . it was decidedly creepy.

"Hermione, what is all this?" Neville waved a hand to emphasize Hermione's new attire.

Hermione glanced down at herself and then spun around in a tight circle. She did her best imitation Snape scowl and then ruined it by breaking out in a huge grin as the robes swirled about her and then fell in graceful waves around her boots. "You know,” she said, “there is something fun and empowering about these robes. I can see why he favors them."

"You've gone absolutely barmy," Neville choked out, his expression caught somewhere between horror and a sick kind of fascination as he continued to stare at the transformed Hermione.

Hermione laughed aloud at that. "Not barmy, Neville, it’s just part of the plan."

Pulling around one of the desk stools, she seated herself across from him, settling her robes around her in inky pools of cloth. "Professor Snape intimidates you. We are going to try to retrain your responses to him so that when you feel him standing behind you in class, it will be no different than me standing behind you in here. It won't be easy, Neville. It will take some work on your part. If you don't want to do this, tell me now."  
  
Neville thought about his greenhouse dreams and chances of actually passing Potions this year before he nodded his head, a grim expression on face. “I’m in, Hermione. If you think this will work and you can help me, then I’ll do whatever you want. I want to pass Potions. I HAVE to pass Potions.”  
  
“Okay.  Here is what we are going to do. Professor Snape does his lectures on Thursdays, gives out his essay assignment, then we hand in homework and brew on Tuesdays with readings given for the next Thursday’s lecture. That’s his pattern and he rarely deviates from it. You and I will meet here on Wednesdays to go over readings and walk through what potion we're going to brew on Tuesday. Then on Monday we'll pre-brew the potion we'll brew in class."  
  
Neville looked a little skeptical. "How's that going to help me? Destroying a potion in here first won’t make a difference."  
  
"It’s going to help, because we are going to work out the reasons of WHY you mess up a potion first, so that you don’t make that mistake when you get in class. We, Neville, are going to re-invent the way you brew. I've noticed that when you lay out your equipment, it's not in any kind of order. Plus, you sometimes have ingredients on your desk that you don't need. That's what happened with the Rejuvenation Potion we did last month. Professor Snape was standing behind you. You got flustered and picked up the first thing within reach, which was sea salt. Sea salt shouldn't have even been out on your worktable.”  
  
“And you think this will work?” Neville could help the doubt that was still coloring his voice.  
  
Hermione got to her feet and then settled into classic Snape stance; feet braced and arms crossed across her chest as she looked down a haughty nose at Neville. “I know it will.”  
  
An hour later, Neville decided that if Professor Snape didn't kill him in Potions, Hermione would in pseudo-Potions class. She'd started with throwing rapid-fire questions at him from their reading for the next day's lecture; questions she felt Professor Snape might ask the class. She'd corrected, expanded and refined his answers until Neville felt his brain would explode from the information. And all the while, she'd paced, swooped, and stalked around the classroom as if she really was Professor Snape; snarling out rude comments when he got something wrong and adding and deducting imaginary House points.

At least, he hoped they were imaginary. You could never be too sure about things in the Room of Requirement. For all practical purposes, this was the Potions classroom and Hermione was Professor Snape. The Room of Requirement just might decide that he really required points to be added and deducted. He’d earned a generous, by Professor Snape standards, total of eight points for Gryffindor that evening, while losing a respectable fifty. Although, he had broken down into laughter when she'd taken off ten points for breathing, something even Professor Snape hadn't tried yet. It had felt good to laugh though. He didn’t think he’d ever laughed at having points removed before. It was a rather novel experience.  
  
When she had finally released him from their tutorial session, Neville was exhausted and sweaty. He was also nurturing a small hope for the next day's lesson. For the first time in his days at Hogwarts, Neville was feeling fairly confident on his ability to handle, if not Professor Snape, at least Professor Snape's class.  
  
Even knowing that the Room of Requirement would just disappear, Neville cleaned and straightened up his work area under Hermione’s watchful eye. Neville felt a surge of satisfaction as she nodded in approval as everything was packed up properly.  
  
“Neville?”

“Yes, Professor Granger-Snape?”  
  
“Oh, stop it,” she groused good-naturedly.  
  
“Well, you know, Hermione, if the black robes fit.” Neville had rather enjoyed teasing Hermione with her new name of ‘Professor Granger-Snape.’ She gave the funniest twitches every time he said it.  
  
“All teasing aside, there is something else I want you to do. It’s going to seem kind of silly, but I think it will help you overcome some of your fear.”  
  
“What is it?”  
  
“Muggles refer to it as humanizing your fear. You give your fear a name or a face. You talk to it, relate to it as if it was real. It allows you to confront the thing – in this case, Professor Snape – in a way that puts you in control. You understand?”  
  
Neville tilted his head to one side and watched Hermione. She seemed rather nervous about whatever it was she wanted him to do. It fact, this was the first time Neville had seen her nervous all evening. “Hermione, I don’t care if it is silly. If it will get me an Outstanding in Potions, I’ll do it.”  
  
“I promise, I think it will help.” Flashing him an encouraging smile, Hermione walked over to an object sitting on the Professor’s desk. Bringing it back across the room, she handled Neville a black-clad bundle about six inches long.  
  
Carefully Neville pulled back the black cloth wrapping the object until it lay exposed in his hand. “Hermione, this is . . .”  
  
“Yeah, it is,” she agreed.  
  
Well, that explained her nervousness and why she thought he’d think it silly. “You know,” he said, “I was only kidding earlier when I called you barmy. But, this – you really are nuts.”  
  
Hermione gave him a half-hearted shrug. “You don’t have to, Neville, but it’s a proven method for learning to confront your fears.”  
  
Neville looked uncertainly up at Hermione and then back down to the . . . thing. “What am I suppose to do with it?”  
  
“Carry it with you. Talk to it. Confront it. Sleep with it.”  
  
Neville’s eyes widened at that one. “Sleep with it?”  
  
Hermione gave a huff of amusement at Neville’s expression. “Okay, maybe not sleep with it.”  
  
“Hermione, do you have any idea what the other guys will do to me if they find me with this, or, Merlin forbid, if someone from Slytherin found me with this? I would never live it down. Forget passing Potions, I’ll never be able to leave my room again. Are you sure this will help?”  He had no doubt that Hermione could hear the doubt and underlying fear in his voice.

“Neville, I know it’s a lot to ask, but I really do think it can help. Besides, you are a Gryffindor, and we aren’t afraid of things that might not even happen.”  
  
Neville wrinkled his nose in mock-disgust. “Oh yeah, don’t think I don’t know that trick. Anytime anyone wants to get a Gryffindor to do something, they just appeal to their sense of bravery.” Neville sighed. He knew he’d do it. He’d do about anything to get through Potions, even this. “Just promise me that if anyone finds out that you’ll sneak food up to my room so I don’t starve to death in my disgrace.”  
  
Her expression appropriately solemn, Hermione raised her hand over her heart. “I promise, Neville.”  
  
Feeling just as silly as Hermione had said he would, Neville raised his arm up and lifted the small doll bespelled to look like Professor Snape up to eye level. “Well, Professor Snape,” Neville said, addressing the doll in his hand, “it’s time to head back to Gryffindor. And whatever you do, please, please make sure you stay out of sight.”

++++++  
  
With the Neville part of the plan begun, Hermione turned her attention back to bullet point number one of S.N.O.R.T.’s agenda – respect.

That was going to be a fuzzier topic than Neville’s Potions disasters to deal with. She’d decided to start where she started all her projects. As far as Hermione was concerned, the library was the place where all good plans began. She’d learned from her mistakes with the house-elves. With them she’d not researched nor understood things from their perspective. She didn’t like making the same mistakes twice.

To begin her research she checked out several books on the history of the House of Slytherin, and two books that were promising to be very interesting reads on Pureblood society within the wizarding world. To truly respect someone, you had to understand them and she was going to do her best to understand the man she’d taken on as her pet project. She was going to give herself a crash course in what being Severus Snape, Head of Slytherin, really meant.  
  
Having secured her bedtime reading for the next few weeks, she turned to Phase II of the respect campaign. The timing would have to be precise. Hesitation or doubt could cost her dearly. Too quick and he would be past her before she could do it. Too slow and she ran the risk of him stopping her with point deductions or detentions, and she’d had her fill of dead bugs.  
  
So here she was – the moment was right, the place was right, the time was right.  
  
Professor Snape stalked down the hallway towards her, parting students before him like some kind of malevolent Moses. The first-years even plastered themselves against the walls in fear as he passed. Careful to stay her course, she refused to make a wide berth around him.  
  
She was quick to tell herself that the pounding of her heart and sweaty palms gripping her Arthimancy book was due to nervousness and not fear. _Gryffindor, indeed.  Y_ ou’d think she was about to walk past Voldemort himself.  
  
Four steps.  
  
Three steps.  
  
Two steps.  
  
One-  
  
“Good afternoon, Professor Snape.”  
  
And she was past him, so close that she felt the trailing edge of his teaching robes brush against her left ankle in a caress of black wool.

He’d said nothing in return. Not that she’d expected him to, although he had flicked his eyes in her direction in a vague sort of acknowledgment. It wasn’t much, but then he hadn’t sneered at her either. He’d not even taken House points and if ever there was a teacher who could, and would, devise a method to take points for issuing a greeting, Professor Snape was it.  
  
Continuing down the hallways, her thoughts continued to follow the man disappearing quickly behind her. Had she said the greeting with enough sincerity? Too sweet? Too enthusiastic? Had she smiled too much or not enough?

She heaved a sigh.  There was simply no way to know for sure.  But with that simple greeting, she began her campaign to acknowledge the professor everyone avoided.  


++++++  
  
Harry laughed as Neville danced around them once again. Hermione was happy to hear the sound. Harry had not laughed enough, in her opinion, lately.

It pleased her that Neville was happy and through Neville, Harry was happy. Casting an eye at some of Neville's more intricate dance steps, she decided that Neville probably more at the ecstatic end of the scale. Happy was too mundane a description.

Neville took that moment to do a hip wiggle that had Hermione choking back laughter. The other students in the hallway were casting them odd looks, but most were ignoring the Gryffindors. Seeing fellow students come out of the corridor leading down to the Potions classroom exhibiting the extremes of emotion wasn't anything new. Granted, those extremes were usually anger or tears, but dancing could be accepted too.  
  
"Did you hear him?" Neville asked again.  
  
Ron answered this time for the group. "Yes, Neville, we heard him. We were there."  
  
"Did you see his face as he said the words?"  
  
It was Harry's turn to answer. "Yes, Neville, we saw his face. We were there."  
  
Neville did another half-skip and bounce. "I wish Colin could have gotten a picture of it. I can't wait to tell Gran."  
  
“Mr. Longbottom, is dancing in the halls really necessary?” Professor McGonagall’s crisp tones halted Neville mid pirouette, but could not extinguish the grin still plastered on his face.  
  
“Sorry, Professor.  It’s just that Professor Snape made me happy. It’s hard to control.”  
  
The Transfiguration teacher did nothing to hide her look of surprise. “Professor Snape made you happy?”  
  
“Yes, Ma’am.” Neville bounced again on his toes. “We had a lecture today on the Stress Reduction potion and its applications. I answered Professor Snape’s questions.” Neville giggled as the excitement washed through him again, and then he leaned conspiratorially towards McGonagall as if he was about to impart something of vital importance. “Professor Snape gave me five points TO Gryffindor,” he whispered, though it was loud enough that everyone could hear him. It was very obvious that Neville Longbottom was drunk on his own happiness.

“I got a point for each question I answered correctly. I even answered the one about the circumstances when it’s contraindicated.” Neville eyes lit up with glee. “Oh professor, you should have seen the expression on his face when no one else raised their hand to answer that one. Not even Hermione!”  
  
It was easy to see that Professor McGonagall was fighting to keep from smiling herself at Neville’s antics though she cut her eyes over to Hermione as Neville finished. “I see,” she said. “Five points from Professor Snape is cause for dancing indeed.” Her focus still on Hermione, she added, “Especially for a question that even Miss Granger couldn’t answer.”  
  
Neville, completely oblivious to the undercurrents of the Professor’s words, went back to bouncing on his toes. “Yes, Ma’am,” he answered. Hermione remained silent, though she did duck her head under the probing stare of her Head of House.  
  
Finally giving into a small chuckle, McGonagall swept her eyes over the others. “I think you three best see that Mr. Longbottom makes it to the Great Hall for lunch.” Still chuckling, she moved off further down the corridor.

++++++  
  
Professor Snape settled into his usual seat at the High Table only to be confronted with a madly grinning Minerva McGonagall, proving once again that the Hogwarts grapevine moved faster than Owl post. He had no doubts as to what put that decidedly annoying expression on her face.  
  
Playing his part for the other teachers at the table, he sneered in disgust. “Not a word, Professor.”  
  
Hoping to dissuade the woman from continuing, he turned to his lunch and reached for the plate in front of him. Using his fork, he broke through the crust on his Shepherd’s Pie only to swallow hard against the wave of nausea that went through him as the smell of stewed meat and vegetables rose up in a cloud of steam.  
  
Leaning back, he took several quick, shallow breaths hoping Minerva was too occupied to notice the sweat popping up on his forehead or the sudden shaking of the hand holding his fork. Luck, fickle bitch that she was, decided that he was due a small break as Minerva carried on oblivious to his discomfort.  
  
“Now, Severus,” she said, her voice a study in sweet innocence, “I’ve no idea what you are talking about.”  
  
Deciding that he’d rather play the game than try his lunch, he pasted a superiorly smug expression on his face. “You, like most of your House, are a horrible liar.”  
  
He noticed with some small sense of accomplishment that the other teachers were eavesdropping on their conversation. At the table with him now, he knew only Minerva, Hagrid and Albus as Order members. He’d long suspected Vector and Flitwick as members, but like the Dark Lord with the Death Eaters, only Albus knew the name and faces of all the Order Members.

It was an exercise in potential damage control rather than trust, in case any of them were ever compromised, or, in his own case, if the suspicions of the rest of the Order were confirmed and he really was the traitor in their midst. To remain ignorant of the names of most of the Order was his concession to their fears. He was careful to not acknowledge the small stab of regret that always hit him as he wondered what the last years might have been like if he’d been free to acknowledge these people who sat around him as both friends and colleagues.  
  
Spearing a potato with his fork to give the appearance of eating, Severus gave the performance they all expected of him. “Before you choke on your own amusement, yes, I gave Longbottom five points in class today. I’m sure that it is a sign of some coming apocalypse. The boy knew every answer, even the one not found in the reading. It was unnatural and against the very order of the universe. I’d have thought Miss Granger was feeding him answers, but I was watching the girl the whole time.” He snorted in disgust. “It was obvious that the boy had been coached in his responses. However, if some selfless Gryffindor martyr – and I have no doubts it was a Gryffindor – wish to take on the dunderheads for me, they are more than welcome to them.”  
  
Finishing with a heartfelt, “Good riddance to the lot,” he stood, the very picture of an aggravated Potions master. Gathering his robes around him, he gave a slight bow to Albus. “If you will excuse me, Headmaster.” Without waiting for a response, he turned and stepped down from the raised dais that held the High Table to head back to the dungeons. Behind him he could hear Minerva’s rising laughter and the sounds of the other teachers settling into friendly joking.  
  
Across the Hall, a pair of observant eyes followed his progress as he made his way from the room; eyes that noted that once again, Professor Snape had eaten nothing of his meal.  
  
++++++  
   
It was official; subtle was not in her nature.

Neither was patient, nor slow. What had seemed, in the beginning, like two simple adjustments to her behavior were proving harder to manage than giving Neville confidence in Potions.

It really was two small, relatively simple things. What she asked of herself shouldn’t have been any harder than what she asked of Neville – first, stop raising her hand to every question put forth in Professor Snape’s class and second, write no more and no less than the assignment length on her Potions essays.  
  
Easy. Simple. Easy and simple for a Slytherin. Easy and simple for a Hufflepuff. Maybe slightly harder for a Ravenclaw. Near impossible for one over-achieving Gryffindor, Muggle-born witch inclined to prove herself good enough for the wizarding world.

In trying to curb her excesses, Hermione was beginning to realize that she had a lot of issues. Her parents had always encouraged her to ‘Know Herself.’ She was realizing she didn’t know herself as well as she’d always thought.  
  
Class had been hard enough. In the beginning, she’d decided to limit her answers to one question in every three. Before the end of the first class after making her new resolution, the urge to answer was so strong that she’d had to sit on her hands to keep from thrusting them up in the air. Of course, Professor Snape had taken off ten points for disturbing the class with her inability to sit still. _Was it her fault if sitting on her hands was uncomfortable?_  
  
Now she was facing her second trial by fire. Squinting down at the ruler in her hand, Hermione measured off the parchment one last time, careful to keep the scream of frustration she could feel bubbling up inside from escaping. No matter how good she knew it would feel, screaming like a banshee would only end up scaring the first-years.  
  
Lifting her head slightly, she sent a baleful look at those self-same first-years as they sat on the floor in front of the Common Room fireplace playing a game of Exploding Snap. Their laughter was starting to grate on her nerves, their carefree attitudes a personal affront as she wrestled with her homework. _How dare they be finished while she continued struggling with the last eight inches?_  
  
Muttering darkly under her breath, she refocused on her Potions essay.  
  
“Uhm, Hermione?”  
  
“What?” snapped Hermione, her temper frayed from her ongoing battle with the written word.  
  
Ginny Weasley look an involuntary step back as Hermione raised her head. Seeing Ginny’s stricken face, Hermione let out a deep sigh, a chagrined look replacing her scowl. “Sorry, Ginny. I didn’t mean to snap at you.” She gestured at her parchment with her ruler. “I’m working on my Potions essay. I’ve got another eight inches to go and it’s just not cooperating.”  
  
“That explains the grumbles and growls then,” Ginny said with a knowing grin. “Have you tried writing bigger? I can usually squeeze out a few extra inches that way. You can pull in the margins too but you have to be careful on that. Snape notices if you pull them in too much. That’s how Colin got busted and ended up in detention.” Ginny stopped as she noticed the pinched expression on Hermione’s face.  
  
“What?” Ginny asked. “Have you already tried those?”  
  
Hermione tilted her head forward until she could rest the bridge of her nose against her fingers. She had no idea how much like Professor Snape she looked, especially in those moments when he was confronted by some bit of student idiocy he could not understand. “I’m not trying to ADD another eight inches. I’m trying to CUT eight inches. It’s too long, not too short.”  
  
Ginny began laughing. “Hermione, I love you death and I want you to take this in the spirit it’s intended. Ron’s right -- you’re nuts!”  
  
“Everyone keeps saying that,” Hermione muttered softly.  
  
“What?”  
  
Hermione shook her head. “Nothing.  
  
Upon seeing the distressed look on her friend’s face, Ginny relented in her laughter. “Give it here,” she offered. “Let me look at it. A fresh pair of eyes couldn’t hurt.”  
  
Twenty minutes, a lot of black ink, and one short banshee wail that did indeed scare the first-years, Hermione had a paper exactly forty-eight inches long. She directed a tired smile at Ginny. “Thanks, Gin. I couldn’t have done it without you.”  
  
Exchanging a heartfelt goodnight with the other girl, Hermione gathered up her things. She was exhausted and right now all she wanted was to sleep. Tonight there would be no thinking about Neville. No thinking about ways to be polite. No thinking about too long essays or the damnable urge to raise her hand in class. And there would especially be no thinking about Professor Snape.  



	6. Potions Class

Sometime during the third week of S.N.O.R.T.’s campaign, Hermione received from Professor Snape a suspicious glare coupled with a grunt in reply to a quietly murmured, “Good afternoon, Sir.”

Taking the grunt as a positive sign, while completely ignoring the warning of the glare, she practically walked on air for the rest of the day. Even the boys had asked her what she was ‘so bloody cheerful about.’ Ron’s words, of course, though Harry had shared the sentiment.

She’d waved them off with a comment about having a good day as there wasn’t any way to explain her giddiness.  The boys had finished their dinner whispering together about how weird and confusing girls were.

Hermione didn’t care.  His small acknowledgment meant that Professor Snape at least recognized the effort she was making and responding to it.  The fact that his response was suspicion didn’t matter.

++++++

Neville sat propped up against his headboard, several different texts arrayed in a half circle around him. He scribbled furiously on a piece of parchment, stopping every so often to lean over one of the open books on the bed. He’d read a few passages, mumble a few disjointed words under his breath, and then return to his writing. A few moments later, with a flourish of his quill, Neville added his last sentence.  
  
Sitting back with a stretch, he looked over what he’d written. The essay topic was an examination of the types of cauldrons used in modern potion making and how each metal choice could affect the potion being brewed. “Tell me what you think of this,” Neville said. Clearing his throat, he began to read aloud.  
  
“The following will declare the natural principles and procreations of Minerals and the natural principles of each. All metals and minerals can positively or negatively impact the potion they are used to brew. According to learned Alchemical texts, the purity and impurity of the metals used can have drastic changes upon said potions. This state of purity and impurity moves in sequence from Gold to Silver, Silver to Steel, Steel to Lead, Lead to Copper, and finally Copper to Iron. It must be noted that when given the choice, most modern alchemical and potions scholars will chose steel cauldrons as the least reactive agent in brewing. However, Iron brewing should not be discounted, as the natural state of the impurities found within Iron cauldrons can be most beneficial when working with potion bases dealing with the humors of the body.”  
  
Neville stopped and looked up, fixing his eyes on his audience. “Do you think it too much? I don’t want it to sound too stuffy as an opening paragraph.”  
  
His immobile audience, propped up against a Gryffindor-gold cushion, neither agreed nor disagreed. Neville, not expecting an answering, continued his one-sided dialogue. “Any thoughts on the second transition paragraph? I could rework that one a bit to try to smooth it out some. I’m rather proud of the body of the text though. That book Hermione lent me on cauldron properties really helped, I think.”  
  
Neville stuck one hand under the covers and came back out with his ruler. After careful measurements, he looked back up at the Snape doll with a grin. “Ooh, Little Sev, look at that. I’m actually two inches over the 48-inch requirement limit. I really do think your larger and scarier counterpart will have to give me a passing grade for this one. I’m sure I’ve covered –”  
  
“Hey Nev, who are you–” Dean Thomas stuck his head into the room, “talking to in . . .” and then trailed off as he caught sight of Neville sitting in the room alone. “Odd,” he muttered, “I could have sworn I heard you talking to someone.”  
  
Neville, his heart beating furiously from the spiking adrenaline of the near miss managed to stammer out his hello to Dean. “W-What’s up, Dean?”  
  
“Oh, we were just getting ready to go down to dinner. Wanted to see if you were ready.”  
  
“Sure, sure. Just give me a minute to clean up the mess and I’ll be right down.”  
  
“Okay.” Dean pulled back and let the door to the dorm room close with a quiet _snick._  
  
Neville put a hand up to his racing heart and took a few deep breaths. Then, reaching over, he pulled back the bedspread he’d hastily thrown over the Snape doll when Dean has opened the door. Picking up the doll, he smoothed down its rumpled robes and hair. “Sorry, about that, Little Sev, but you couldn’t be seen.”  
  
Wrapping the doll back up in its black covering, Neville carefully stowed it in his bookbag. A few steps from the door he stopped and reconsidered. “It’s just paranoia,” he said aloud, but nevertheless, Neville retreated to the bag, pulled out the black bundle and stowed it under his pillow. Satisfied, he headed downstairs.

++++++  
  
Professor Snape unrolled the scroll a little further looking for the rest of the essay. He flipped the scroll over thinking that maybe it had been continued on the backside. Pristine white parchment met his gaze. Turning the scroll back over, he glanced at the name confirming that it did indeed belong to Miss Hermione Granger.  
  
Frowning in confusion, he pulled a wooden ruler from beneath the stack of other scrolls on his desk. With a flick of his wrist, the scroll unrolled it full length. Lining up the ruler he ticked off each of the assigned three feet. “Thirty-six inches exactly.”  
  
Eyes slitted, he sat back in his chair contemplating the essay before him. He pondered this change for several long minutes as he rubbed one finger against his bottom lip, unsure of its meaning. Her handwriting was still the neat, easily readable cursive she’d always used. She had not attempted to squeeze more words into the allotted length. Pulling the ruler to him again, he checked the margins. Exact as always. He scanned back over the scroll, noting her research and notations. She’d written the essay on the uses of unicorn hair in potions with textbook precision. But re-reading the document he realized that she’d not done the extra work she’d become infamous for. There were no sidebar discussions on unicorn blood, horn or history. Miss Granger discussed the topic of the report and that topic alone.  
  
_Impossible.  
_  
Frown deepening into a scowl he reached into the bottom drawer of his desk to pull out Granger’s file. Pulling out his copies of her last few papers he began re-reading them. Her last three papers were all exactly the required length. So roughly a month ago, Miss Granger’s essays had changed. _Was the timeframe significant in some way?_

Thinking back, he couldn’t recall anything that should cause such a change. He’d been yelling at her for six years to write only the assignment, why had she now decided to listen? And did this strange behavior have anything to do with her other strange behaviors of late? More importantly, he thought, as he rubbed at tired eyes, why the hell had it taken him this long to realize her essays had changed?  
  
Severus Snape was not a man who liked mysteries. He’d learned long ago that mysteries did nothing but cause problems when what they hid was finally revealed. The girl had just officially become a mystery.  
  
“At what are you playing, Miss Granger?” he asked aloud, though there was no one there to answer.

++++++  
  
Neville, seated on the couch in front of the Common Room fireplace, was deep into his Potions textbook, trying to completely absorb the chapter on topical medications. Little Sev, safely ensconced and hidden from prying eyes, was tucked in the bookbag resting at his feet. He’d actually already read the chapter once but later tonight he had another class with Professor Granger-Snape. He wanted to make sure that he knew as much on the topic as possible. The subject matter was actually quite interesting as medicinal potions tended to rely almost entirely on Herbology for ingredients. If it wasn’t for the looming specter of Professor Snape, there were times Neville thought that Potions could even be his second favorite class. There was something fascinating about the process that took plants and transformed their innate properties into tangible results.  
  
His concentration was so complete that he didn’t notice when Colin Creevey left a game of Exploding Snap with some of his year-mates and sat down beside Hermione.

++++++  
  
“Hey Hermione, can I ask you something?”  
  
Hermione looked up from her Ancient Runes book and smiled at the fifth year in front of her, who was nervously flicking a small lever on his ever-present camera back and forth. Colin had lost some of his boundless enthusiasm over the years, but he still retained some of that wide-eyed awe that had first marked him as a first-year when it came to Harry, Ron, and Hermione. At least now, five years later, Colin could talk to Harry without getting tongue-tied. “Ask away, Colin?”  
  
Colin shuffled his feet a bit, digging the toe of one shoe into the carpet. “I was talking to Neville earlier. I wanted to know if he could tell me what he has been doing to get better grades in Potions. Rumor has it that Professor Snape even gave Neville points in class.” Colin grimaced. “I’m not doing so well and my mum is going to kill me if I fail.” He gave an exaggerated shudder. “All I can say is that it’s a good thing that my mum is Muggle and can’t send Howlers.”  
  
Colin gave Hermione a nervous smile. “Anyway, Neville said you’d been helping him but he wouldn’t tell me how. He said I had to come ask Professor Granger-Snape, but he wouldn’t explain what he meant by that. So, can you help me the way you’ve helped Neville?”  
  
_Could she help Colin?_ Hermione didn’t know. She’d really never thought about helping anyone else in Potions. She was intimately familiar with Neville’s problems. She wasn’t sure what was causing Colin’s issues.  
  
Sensing her starting to waiver, Colin pulled out all the stops and turned his saddest expression on her, all big eyes and woeful expression. “Please, Hermione?”  
  
Well, she thought, S.N.O.R.T.’s goal had been Neville and dunderheads in general. “All right, Colin, we’ll give it a try. Meet Neville after dinner. He’ll bring you up to the Room of Requirement; that’s where we’re meeting. Bring your current homework for Potions and the syllabus you guys are using. I’ll need to find out where in the curriculum your class is. Oh, and bring your potions kit, you’ll need that too.  And Colin,” she paused, making sure she had his full attention, “there is nothing secret about my helping Neville. However, you might not want to spread around the way in which I’m helping. There is a high probability of Professor Snape putting Gryffindor’s House points down into negative numbers if he were to hear about what is exactly going on.”  
  
Colin nodded, as Hermione gave him a smile lifting the serious atmosphere that had developed. “Okay, make sure you come with Neville and bring your things and we’ll see what we can do.”

++++++

_Neville’s essay is based off a section of the alchemical text “The Mirror of Alchemy,” composed by the famous Friar, Roger Bacon, sometime fellow of Martin College and Brasen-nase College in Oxenforde. I have taken and rewritten the original text to update the language and remove some references due to the fact that Friar Bacon, and the alchemists of his time, thought that all metals were made up of two base elements - Argent-vive, and Sulfur and that depending on the ratio between these elements, you either had pure gold or base lead with all the other metals ranging in between._

 


	7. Setbacks and Second Engagements

  
_She had had big brown eyes._  
  
Severus needed sleep. The pull of it was a Siren’s song that flirted with seductive promise along the edges of his senses. However, like any true Siren, the offered promise of bliss turned to horror whenever he closed his eyes.  
  
_Wet with tears and lit with terror, her eyes had pleaded with him to save her._  
  
The events of the night’s Revel still clung to him with cold, ghostly fingers. The Dark Lord wanted a message sent that resistance would not be tolerated. To that end, two families had been targeted; two families whose crime consisted of Muggle blood within the last three generations and open opposition to the Dark Lord. Their deaths tonight would send a wave of fear through the entire wizarding world. After tonight, even more wizards and witches would bow down before Lord Voldemort, if only to ensure the safety of their families.  
  
_Truly there was no lonelier place to be, than having only the killers of your family around you._  
  
He’d learned a long time ago to shut away those nights for his own sanity, but sometimes the emotions were more difficult to lock away. Until he could no longer hear the screams or taste the ashes in the back of his throat, sleep wasn’t an option for him this night.  
  
_He hadn’t saved her. Couldn’t save her. Wasn’t even sure he could save himself anymore._  
  
He had discovered that even the strongest Dreamless Sleep potion was no longer a match for the horror that lurked in the deepest recesses of his mind, not to mention he was already dangerously close to becoming addicted to the sweet oblivion offered by the potion. His back was already bowed beneath the weight of both the Dark Lord and Albus. He didn’t think he could support another ‘monkey,’ as he had heard Muggles call it.  
  
_She hadn’t begged. Just looked at him. Expecting more from him than he could give._  
  
He felt like he was trying to walk the thin edge of a razor. On one side the Dark Lord was pulling him down, while on the other side suspicious Order members were expecting him to topple any minute and were relishing in that fact so they could then point, with heads held high in smug arrogance, that they had never trusted him in the first place. And all the while, the razor’s edge cut deeply into the bare soles of his feet with every step.  
  
Severus snorted in self-mockery at the lurid imagery. He really did need sleep if he was turning this morbidly poetic. He was just so damned tired. Looking for respite, and something to calm the roiling cauldron of his own emotions, he had left his quarters to walk the corridors, hoping that once again the peace and quiet of empty, shadowed hallways would calm him down. Hours later, with dawn breaking, he was just finding his equilibrium again, the face of the nameless girl fading away into the peace of the castle.  
  
_She had just looked at him with those big brown eyes wet with tears._  
  
By the time the students were up and roaming the hallways, he’d once again have mastery over himself and his emotions. He just needed a little more time, and maybe a headache potion, to be able to face this day.

++++++  
  
Hermione awoke early; the grey of almost dawn just beginning to light her windows. Humming with energy, she decided to get a little extra reading done in the library before breakfast. She had found that in the early morning hours, the library was inevitably deserted, with not even Madam Pince being in yet. With its huge east-facing windows allowing her to watch the sunrise, the library had quickly become one of her favorite places to begin the day.  
  
Knowing she would have to hurry if she wanted to see the sunrise, Hermione rolled out from under her covers, dislodging a slumbering Crookshanks, who gave an affronted meow before he crawled back under the covers into the warmth Hermione had just vacated.  
  
Gathering up her toiletry items she hurried to the prefects’ bath. Once again, noting her time, she performed a quick bath before pulling on her school uniform. Glancing at her hair in the mirror, she gave it up as a lost cause and pulled the mass of curls up into a messy ponytail.  
  
Morning routine complete, Hermione grabbed her backpack and headed out of Gryffindor Tower. She smiled when she saw Professor Snape coming towards her down the corridor that housed the library. She even felt a small bubble of genuine warmth towards the dark man stalking determinedly in her direction. In an odd way, she had begun to think of him as hers, or at least her responsibility; a mental daydream with which she amused herself that followed along the lines of Androcles and the Lion. Professor Snape made a particularly fierce, black-maned lion in her daydreams with Neville as his personal thorn in his paw.  
  
Happy daydream of a suitably grateful Professor Snape in mind, she smiled widely at her professor as he drew even with her and offered him a cheery good morning. She was completely unprepared and defenseless against the reaction her words unleashed.  
  
Hermione was almost even with the Potions master when he stepped to his side, directly in front of her. Stumbling to a halt so as to not run into him from his unexpected move, Hermione looked up in confusion. What she saw in his face made her take a step backwards in fright while her hand inched toward the robe pocket that held her wand.  
  
The professor followed her for that small step, his eyes black slits of rage. Most frightening of all was the silence with which Professor Snape stalked her, forcing her relentlessly backwards until she felt the cold stone of the castle meet her back.  
  
Still he said nothing; no cutting remarks, no points deduction or detentions. Trembling, Hermione had never been more scared in her life, the fact that she didn’t understand what had set him off only adding to her fear. The man pinning her to the wall with nothing more than his presence was nothing like anything she’d ever seen. Tears, beyond her control, welled up in her eyes and fell in silent tracks down her cheeks, but Hermione didn’t lower her eyes, some instinct of self-preservation screaming at her that to show submission now would invite something she’d didn’t even want to contemplate.  
  
Vold black eyes stared back at her. “Do you think me stupid, Miss Granger?”  
  
Hermione shuddered at that softly voiced question, all the more terrifying for its lack of heat or anger. Unable to find her voice, Hermione shook her head from side to side.  
  
He took another half-step towards her, still not close enough to touch, but enough to send her already racing heart into a pounding frenzy. “Do you think me blind then?  
  
He took another half step towards her, continuing in that same soft voice. “Do you think a pleasant greeting is going to make any difference? That the evil loose in the world is going to give you a cheery wave if you just wave first? Let me disabuse of that infantile notion. You are hereby welcome to rejoin your addle-witted compatriots in running from me in fear. I do not know what kind of game you think you are playing, but I can assure you that if I did not fall to Potter Senior and his friends, I will not be made a fool by you and your friends now.”  
  
Hermione couldn’t think, could only shake her head back and forth. _She wasn’t. She wouldn’t_.  
  
Seeing a great shudder run through his body, she froze, her breath caught in her lungs.  
  
“Run,” he rasped out.  
  
Hermione ran, behind her she heard the sound of something hitting the wall.

++++++

Severus channeled the swirling uncontrolled anger and did the only thing he could and punched the unyielding stone of the wall.  

The girl -- the thrice-damned, happy, Gryffindor girl -- no one had the right to be happy, no one when . . . he wasn’t even sure of the words he spoke – his suspicions and fears, past and present, all jumbling together – he knew only of his shattered, hard-won equilibrium and the all-consuming rage that swept through him.

_How dare she! How dare she be happy and safe and secure?_ Miss Granger, who was changing the habits of six long years for no apparent reason. Miss Hermione Granger, who was planning something, setting him up for something -- more humiliation, more taunting.  
  
_Hermione Granger who had big brown eyes_. Eyes that stared up at him, lashes darkened, cheeks wet with silent tears.

The pain from bruised knuckles finally reached him, forcing back the uncontrolled emotions.  He reached down with bloodied knuckles and gripped his forearm tight where the Mark pulsed like a black heart beneath his sleeve.

_Oh, sweet Merlin, help me._

++++++  
  
Hermione ran, the doors to the library suddenly appearing on her right. Hitting them at full tilt, the heavy doors swung back to crack loudly against the walls. She paid no attention, her only thoughts to run and hide. Winding deeper into the tall stacks, she sought to hide herself among the books, darting down little used aisles until she was far into the maze created by the shelves. Only then did she drop to the ground, her breath coming in great sobbing gasps as she tried to make sense of what had just happened.  
  
She was still shaking when she finally made it down to the Great Hall for breakfast, thankful that she had at least had some time to gather her composure.  
  
“Hermione, are you all right?”  
  
Hermione turned to give Ron a small smile, but that affirmation didn’t seem to sway him from his scrutiny. While Ron could be as clueless and self-absorbed as any teenager, his Molly genes seemed to pop up at the most inopportune moments. Right now, she was in no shape to deal with a solicitous Weasley.  
  
Brightening her smile, she hid her still shaking hands in her lap. “Really, Ron, I’m fine. Just one of those mornings when everything seems a little off.”  
  
That seemed to reassure him, but Hermione caught him sending her odd glances throughout breakfast. Professor Snape, she noticed, never appeared at breakfast, for which she was thankful. She was unsure whether she could face him so soon after . . . after that. Hermione shuddered as the memory of his face rose up in front of her. If the eyes really were the windows to the soul, Professor Snape lived in his own personal hell.  
  
The sound of wings roused her from her thoughts and Hermione spared a small, genuine small for the brown speckled owl that landed in front of her. She didn’t think that the concept of owl mail would ever get old for her. Tucking the required Knuts into the bird’s neck pouch, Hermione took the offered “ _Daily Prophet_.”  
  
Opening the paper, she gasped aloud at the picture spread across the top half – a modest house burned with flickering black and white flames while the Dark Mark hovered in the air above.  
  
“What’s wrong?”  
  
Hermione looked up to meet Harry’s gaze. She debated for a moment, before she answered his question by holding out the paper.  
  
Spreading it out on the table, Harry stared at the picture, his face grim, while Ron read over his shoulder in a hushed tone. “Sources say the Death-Eater attack occurred on the Withmore family sometime between midnight and two in the town of Harrogate outside of Leeds . . . The Withmores, a prominent mixed-blood family, were strong opponents of You-Know-Who . . . Ministry Aurors continue to investigate . . . the dead include Mr. John Withmore, Sr, Mr. and Mrs. John Withmore, Jr. and their eight-year old daughter Anna Withmore.”  
  
Ron stopped reading as Harry crumpled up the paper into a tight ball and stood, his body almost vibrating with his anger.  
  
“Harry?” Hermione questioned softly.  
  
“Later,” the Boy Who Lived snapped. “Right now, just leave me alone.”  
  
Respecting Harry’s wishes, Ron and Hermione watched Harry walk out of the Great Hall while all around him students whispered and looked his way.  
  
“He’s hiding something,” Ron said.  
  
Eyes still on Harry’s retreating back, Hermione asked, “What makes you think that?”  
  
She caught Ron’s shrug out of the corner of her eye. “Don’t know, really. Something’s eating at him though, something bad.” Ron glanced around to make sure no one was listening to him. Lowering his voice even more, he added, “He’s been reading a book lately. It looks like something from the Restricted Section, and I don’t know how he got it.”  
  
“He stole a book?” Hermione hissed in shock, her voice rising.  
  
Ron rolled his eyes in exasperation. “Priorities, Hermione. Focus, and keep your bloody voice down. Swiping the book isn’t important. The book is important. It’s a book on the Unforgivables with emphasis on the Killing Curse. Maybe we need one of those Muggle intermissions.”  
  
Hermione looked confused for a moment before she understood what Ron was saying. “Not intermission, intervention.” Hermione turned thoughtful eyes back towards the direction Harry had taken. “That might not be a bad idea at all.”

++++++  
  
A yell and pounding fists on wood shattered the quiet dormitory. “Hermione! Hermione Granger!”  
  
Hermione rolled out of her bed, wand in hand, feet set in a defensive stance before she’d even completely opened and focused her eyes. Whatever her sleep-fogged brain was expecting, a trembling first-year standing in her open doorway in flannel pajamas with kittens on them wasn’t it. Blinking at the girl for a moment, she fought to remember the girl’s name.

 

She was saved from her memory loss as Lavender stuck her head out from her bed curtains. “Lucy, what’s going on?”  
  
Lucy shifted her weight from one foot to the other in impatience. “My roommate, Gemma, Gemma Stuart, she’s sick. Sick bad. She’s throwing up blood. Mina, she’s my other roommate, she said we needed to get her to the Infirmary.” Lucy’s gaze swung back to Hermione. “She said to get you ‘cause you’re a prefect.”  
  
Now that she understood the problem, Hermione’s practical nature kicked in dispelling the last remnants of sleep. Throwing on her black school robe over her thin cotton nightgown, Hermione headed towards the door. “Lavender,” she said as she got to the doorway, “can you go wake up Professor McGonagall. She’ll want to know. I’ll collect Miss Stuart and get her down to Madam Pomfrey. Professor McGonagall can meet us there.”  
  
Hurrying down the curving stairs that led to the first-year rooms, Hermione entered to find Gemma Stuart curled up in a tight ball, her arms wrapped tight around her stomach. Hermione dropped to a crouch beside the girl’s bed while her two roommates stood shuffling their feet nervously behind her. Reaching out, Hermione put her hand on the girl’s forehead. From the heat coming off her, her sweat-soaked hair and glassy eyes, Hermione decided against getting her up and walking her down to the infirmary.  
  
Sitting back on her heels, she pulled her wand. Gathering her concentration she waved her wand and intoned “ _Mobilicorpus_ ,” taking care that her pronunciation and wand movements were correct. She’d never actually performed this spell, so she let out a breath of relief as Gemma Stuart rose smoothly up into the air to hover a foot or so above the bed sheets. Motioning for Lucy to open the door, Hermione floated the semi-conscious girl out the door. Maneuvering Miss Stuart along the staircase and through the darkened Common Room, Hermione felt the pull on her magic before she’d gone even a few steps through the portrait door. Holding the spell and concentration needed to keep Miss Stuart level and moving was harder than she’d realized. Gritting her teeth in determination, she quickened her pace.  
  
She was halfway down the hallway, when she realized with a sickening dismay that she should have thought to grab a blanket to cover the younger girl. A trip through the icy corridors of Hogwarts wasn’t going to help the shivers wracking the child’s body. And it was cold, as Hermione’s own bare feet could attest to, as in her hurry she’d run out without her own slippers.  
  
“No help for it,” she muttered, as one-handed she unbuttoned her own robe before tossing it over Miss Stuart. The girl was her responsibility and, if necessary, Hermione could live with cold toes. Murmuring soothing words to the other girl, Hermione continued as quickly as possible towards the Infirmary, Miss Stuart’s floating body slowly dipping down further to the floor as Hermione own magic started to flag under the strain. She wasn't used to doing magic that required her to hold the power for the spell for such a length of time.  
  
“Let me guess,” a disembodied voice said, “there was a book you just had to have from the library?”  
  
Hermione jumped, letting out a startled shriek as Professor Snape stepped out of the shadows of a side passageway. In her fright, she barely managed to control the _Mobilicorpus_ spell holding Miss Stuart aloft.  
  
“Twenty points, Miss Granger, for wandering the halls after–.” He stopped as he caught sight of the girl floating slightly behind Hermione, the black school robe tossed over her blending her into the shadows of the hallway.  
  
Stepping around her, he approached Miss Stuart, the backs of two fingers coming to rest on the girl's feverish skin.  
  
Hermione, her last encounter with this man still fresh in her mind, backed slowly away from him. He had scared her badly and she was notably wary of him now.  
  
“What happened?” he snapped.  
  
Hermione jumped slightly. "Her roommates woke me up, sir." As the professor continued his quick check of Miss Stuart's vitals, she added, "She's running a temperature, sweating, and her roommates said she was throwing up blood earlier. When I got to her room she was like she is now, half-awake but not really responding."  
  
Pulling out his own wand, Professor Snape demanded, "Release the spell to me, before you have her dragging along the floor. Then run ahead to the Infirmary and tell Madam Pomfrey we are on our way."  
  
Raising her wand, Hermione felt a wash of relief as Professor Snape seamlessly took over the _Mobilicorpus_ spell.  Miss Stuart’s floating body instantly rose back up from her sagging position to straighten out into a firm horizontal line. Feeling the magical strain lift from her, Hermione was reminded of what he’d told her about magic Affinity. Even under these circumstances, with her stomach tied in knots from being this close to him, she couldn’t help but marvel at the smooth transition of control from her magic to his, or completely suppress a shiver, as for a brief second, she touched his magic with her senses – magic that was deep and dark and brought images of the ocean at night to Hermione’s mind.  
  
Shaking her head to disburse the imagery, she spun around to take off running when "Stop!" in a voice that was not to be disobeyed halted her in her tracks.  
  
Snape was looking at her with an expression of disbelief. "Where are your robe and shoes, Miss Granger?" he demanded.  
  
She cringed at both the words and his expression. "I forgot my shoes in my haste to check on Miss Stuart, sir.” She gestured back to the floating girl. “I forgot to grab a blanket and she was shivering. I figured she needed my robe more than I did."  
  
"Five points for not having more common sense, girl. It’s the beginning of April in Scotland."  
  
Hermione struggled against the brash words that wanted to spill forth; regardless of how nervous he now made her. _How dare he take away points for trying to take care of someone else?_ Working herself up into a right snit, she was completely gobsmacked when Professor Snape reached up and undid the clasp of his teaching robe, shrugging out of it, and then holding the heavy fabric out to her.  
  
Scowling, as she stared back at him in shock, he thrust the robe into her arms. "Quit standing there like a daft ninny. Go rouse Madam Pomfrey."  
  
Jerking under the snap of his words, Hermione threw the robe over her shoulders, covering the thin nightdress she was wearing. Gathered up the excess length of robe in her hands, she gave a quick nod of thanks to Professor Snape and took off at a near run towards the Infirmary. When she arrived, she was relieved that Professor McGonagall was already there with Madam Pomfrey. Both women looking much like Hermione felt, having been pulled from a sound sleep with no time to make themselves presentable. Professor McGonagall was even wearing a tartan dressing gown with her iron-streaked hair loose around her shoulders rather than her customary teaching robes and tightly controlled hair bun.  
  
Both women turned to her as she entered the Infirmary. "Miss Granger, Miss Brown said you were bringing in a sick first-year."  
  
Panting slightly from her run through the school corridors, Hermione explained between breaths. "Yes, Professor. I ran into Professor Snape. He's bringing her. He told me to come ahead and warn Madam Pomfrey."  
  
A few moments later, just as Hermione’s breath and heartbeat were settling back down into normal levels, Professor Snape appeared. All attention within the room immediately shifted to the ill student. Forgotten for the moment by the adults, Hermione retreated and sa down in one of the wooden chairs that rested against the far wall. She knew she should return to the Gryffindor dormitory, but she wanted to take an update to Miss Stuart’s friends when she went.  
  
Drawing her legs up, she wrapped Professor Snape’s teaching robe around her, tucking the thick fabric under her frozen toes. _Oh, warmth_. It was good to be warm. Resting her arms on her upraised knees, her hands tucked into the voluminous sleeves, Hermione buried her nose into her crossed arms. Breathing deeply, she noticed the scents of sandalwood, herbs, and honeyed beeswax that clung to the fabric. It was a warm, comforting scent, rather at odds she thought with the man himself.  
  
Staring across the room at the flurry of activity around Miss Stuart’s bed, she pondered her Potions professor as he listened intently to the potions that Madam Pomfrey was requesting. With a small nod, he was gone. Hermione supposed to his own stores to gather the requested potions. He’d looked odd to her eyes until she realized that he’d departed without his usual swirl of black robes trailing behind him.  She quirked a small, hidden smile at the thought; it was hard to flare those robes when she was currently wrapped up in them.  
  
_His robes_. She scrunched her toes up in the warm wool. He’d given her his robes. If someone had asked her yesterday if Professor Snape under any circumstances would voluntarily give up his robes to student, she would have answered with an emphatic NO! Yet, here she was, wrapped up in yards of black wool. A Professor Snape who gave her his robes didn’t make any sense when compared to the madman who had scared her badly outside the library. Remembering the desolate sound of his voice when he’d told her to run, Hermione suspected that Professor Snape had even scared himself. _So why give her the robe?_  
  
When Professor Snape returned a few moments later with two flasks in his hands, Hermione frowned as she studied him, for once not having to worry about attracting his attention since he was focused on helping Madam Pomfrey with Miss Stuart.  
  
Working diligently to help a student . . . a Gryffindor student, at that. That shouldn’t be any surprise to her. When it came down to it, he’d always done what he could to protect the school and its students, regardless of House affiliation; just look at her, Harry and Ron and number of times that Professor Snape had come to their rescue. He just did it in a way that no one would recognize his involvement. He was ever the consummate Slytherin.  
  
Hermione absently rubbed a bit of the robe edge between her fingers. There was a thought there flirting around the edges of her consciousness. The professor did care about the students, regardless of how it looked on the surface . . . he was the consummate Slytherin . . . he’d scared her and knew it . . . Professor Snape would never apologize to anyone, especially not a student . . . consummate Slytherin . . . he’d given her his robes . . . protection . . . never apologize . . . but . . .  
  
_Oh_.  
  
He wouldn’t, or maybe even couldn’t, apologize outright. But he could offer an apology of sorts. Hermione buried her nose back into the fabric stretched across her knees. He’d given her his robes. It wasn’t exactly saying that he was sorry for scaring the daylights out of her, but it was close enough in a Slytherin sort of way. Then again, she could be completely delusional and he would have given her the robe anyway since she was running around a cold castle barefoot and in her nightgown. Regardless of the books she was reading on them, trying to figure out Slytherins was a murky business at best.  
  
And while she was thinking of robes, she didn’t remember ever seeing the man without his encompassing teaching robes before. She had known that he was tall and lean, but the man standing across the room from her now was beyond lean. He was painfully thin, with the sharp blades of his shoulders making knife-edged projections against the back of his frock coat. It worried her that the apparently immaculately tailored clothes were hanging so loose on his rangy frame, something that a casual observer wouldn’t normally see because of the heavy teaching robes that usually swathed his body.  
  
The gauntness she was seeing made her think about how often she had seen him pick at his food lately. She cast her glance back to Professor McGonagall and Madam Pomfrey. _Couldn’t they see what she did? Was she the only one to notice his lackluster eating habits of late? Why wasn’t he eating? Stress? An ulcer? Something else?_  
  
Which lead her to wonder what Professor Snape had been doing up anyway. Pushing her arm from within the enveloping sleeves of the robe, Hermione checked the time. It was almost 3:30 in the morning. No teacher had hall duty that late. No student in his or her right mind would be up wandering around at this hour anyway. And yet, Professor Snape had been patrolling, or at least he’d been walking the hallways of the school. Again, she was left with the question of why? She’d always discounted the stories of Professor Snape’s insomnia as student exaggeration or Hogwarts legend. Maybe those stories shouldn’t have been discounted so easily. If the Professor really wasn’t sleeping it would explain a lot – from the dark circles that bruised his eyes on occasion to the hair-trigger temper than left students feeling flayed alive.  
  
He’d been up early -- or possibly late? -- when she’d run into him outside the library as well. Was it all tied together?  
  
Lost in contemplation, Hermione missed Professor McGonagall taking note of her presence until the older teacher stepped into Hermione’s line of sight, effectively blocking her view of the Potions master and mediwitch.  
  
“Miss Granger, what are you still doing here? You should be in bed,” the professor scolded.  
  
Hermione lifted herself from her curled position and stifled a small yawn. “I’m sorry, Professor. I just wanted to get an update about Miss Stuart before heading back. I’m sure her roommates will want to know that she’s doing okay.”  
  
Professor Snape chose that moment to walk over, Hermione’s robe folded neatly over his arm. “You can tell Miss Stuart’s roommates that she is well, but will be remaining in the Infirmary for the next couple of days.  Tyrinion Blood Fever can be dangerous but it was caught in time to cause no lasting harm.”  
  
Hermione let out a small smile in relief.  “I’ll tell her roommates.  Can she have visitors?  I’m sure they’ll want to come by.” 

“Tell them not until after dinner tomorrow.”

She nodded her acceptance and then decided to test her theory of robe-as-apology.  Standing, she let the professor’s robe hang loosely on her smaller frame before resting her hands on the clasp. “Thank you for lending me your robe earlier, sir. It was most kind.”  
  
There was a small curl to his lip.  “Kindness had very little to do with the situation. I would not allow a student to freeze to death.”  
  
Choosing her next words with great care, Hermione said, “I’ve never believed you would allow me to come to harm.” Keeping her eyes locked with his, she added, “You deserve every courtesy and thanks.” There, she could be talking about thanking him for his robe or the greeting that set him off the other morning.  
  
Professor Snape stared back at her, dark eyes revealing nothing of his thoughts. As the silence between them increased, Hermione’s nervousness rose. _Had she said it wrong? Perhaps these conversations within conversations was a skill best left to Slytherins. Had she given the wrong message?_  
  
Professor McGonagall, growing uncomfortable at the cryptic conversation between professor and student stepped into the awkward silence. Taking hold of Hermione’s robe she held it out, her other hand extended to take Professor Snape’s robe.  
  
With a feeling of frustration, Hermione made the exchange, sliding her arms into her own robe; blushing in embarrassment as Professor McGonagall scolded her on her bare feet before transfiguring her some warm slippers.  
  
“Come, Miss Granger.” McGonagall said, “I’ll escort you back to the dormitory.”  
  
Hermione turned to tell Professor Snape good night, but the man had already returned to Madam Pomfrey’s side.  
  
Within nothing else to do, and an impatient Head of House waiting on her, Hermione hurried out.  
  
++++++  
  
Hermione took a deep breath, held it for the count of three and slowly exhaled. She could do this. She took another calming breath. Hold for three. Exhale. She would do this. As the saying goes, you have to get back up on the horse that threw you, or you’d never ride again.  
  
She started walking; her steps slow and measured. She wasn’t hurrying, nor was she dawdling along. She’d told him that she wasn’t afraid of him. Time to prove it. Hopefully he’d gotten the message and didn’t still think she was mocking him or trying to set him up for something.  
  
Four steps.  
  
Three steps.  
  
Two steps.  
  
One . . .  
  
“Good afternoon, Professor Snape.” This time, after a short pause, he inclined his head a fraction of an inch in acknowledgement as they passed.  
  
Behind him he didn’t see Hermione break into the patented Neville dance step of jump, spin and wiggle.

++++++

Later that night, Hermione reached into the top drawer of her nightstand and pulled out her notebook. A quick wand wave later and S.N.O.R.T. was revealed. Flipping through the pages Hermione re-read some of her notations. Like any good researcher, she always kept notes on her progress-to-date.  
  
Neville was making slow, but steady improvement. He seemed less jumpy around Professor Snape although he still had problems when it came to brewing. Colin, well, it was too early to tell about him. She, unfortunately, was having a particularly difficult time when it came to her ‘incessant hand-waving’ as Professor Snape called it. She hated the silence that filled the classroom when he asked a question and no one else knew the answer. The frustrating part of it all was that she wasn’t even sure the professor had noticed her attempts to conform to his classroom expectations.  
  
Her attempts at treating him with the friendly respect afforded the other teachers was meeting with mixed success. He’d nodded to her this afternoon, but the frightening encounter in the library hallway was still fresh in her mind. However, even that confrontation she was now counting as a step forward. It had been obvious from the hateful words he’d hurled at her that he’d noticed that she had begun treating him differently.

 

The fact that her friendly attitude had only served to confuse him and rouse his suspicious nature couldn’t be helped. Their non-conversation in the Infirmary seemed to have made some progress with him though. By returning to her greetings, rather than being scared off, she was hoping that she was reinforcing the message that she was not trying to set him up for some unnamed humiliation, but chose to greet him with honest sincerity.  
  
With that goal in mind, Hermione made a note within her journal, that overall, Professor Snape was NOT a morning person. Truth be told, he didn’t seem to be an afternoon or evening person either, but she was more apt to get a response to her greetings then. He absolutely refused to acknowledge her in the mornings beyond silent snarls. She decided to tailor her own greetings accordingly.  From now on she’d only give him a small smile with a nod of her head in acknowledgement if she met him before noon.  
  
Hermione thumbed through the pages until she got back to the title page. She had two more bullet items to add to S.N.O.R.T.’s agenda; two new points that were a lot more worrisome than the previous ones. Seeing Professor Snape without his camouflaging robes had really concerned her. The man wasn’t taking care of himself. Although she had absolutely no clue how to approach that particular problem, she felt compelled to try. So, with the sense of turning an irrevocable corner, Hermione wrote:  
  
**• Insomnia  
**  
**• Health / Eating Habits**  
  
++++++

 

**Author Note:**  
_Neville’s essay is based off a section of the alchemical text “The Mirror of Alchemy,” composed by the famous Friar, Roger Bacon, sometime fellow of Martin College and Brasen-nase College in Oxenforde. I have taken and rewritten the original text to update the language and remove some references due to the fact that Friar Bacon, and the alchemists of his time, thought that all metals were made up of two base elements - Argent-vive, and Sulfur and that depending on the ratio between these elements, you either had pure gold or base lead with all the other metals ranging in between._


End file.
